r  It  /^  "^rMu^^^ 


■7^- 


THE  CHINA  SHOP 


By  the  Same  Author 

DEBATABLE     GROUND 

6  6  A  N  exceedingly  interesting  novel.     Miss  Stern 
•^*-  is  clever,  with  a  sound  grasp  of  Wells'  daz- 
zling  technique.  ...  A    mighty    sharp-eyed    and 
sharp-tongued  novel." 

— Francis  Hackett  in    The  New  Republic. 

"The  story  fits  England  and  America.  .  .  .  De- 
batable Ground  presents  something  for  all  of  us  to 
think  about,  and  it  likewise  has  a  story  interesting 
enough  for  its  own  sake." 

— The  Chicago  Daily  News. 

"An  exceedingly  clever  book  which  is  at  the 
same  time  an  almost  terribly  real  one.  The  dia- 
logue alone  in  it  is  worth  the  price  of  admission. 
Each  character  has  a  rich,  full  life  at  the  hands 
of  the  author.  It's  all  glittering  with  brilliance, 
but  somehow,  fundamentally,  it's  all  real." 

— Fanny  Butcher  in  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

$2.50  net  at  all  Bookshops 

ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 

Publisher  New  York 


THE  CHINA  SHOP 


G.  B.  STERN 


•  .    » .     «    » 


NEW  YORK     ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF     MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
G.  B.  STERN 


This  hook  has  been  published  and  copyrighted 
in  England  under  the  title  "Larry  Munro." 


PSIKTBO  IN   THB   UKITBD   STATBS    OS*  AMISICA 


TO 
NOEL  COWARD 

In  memory  of  much  china  broken 
at  St.  Merryn  in  August,  1918 


M371S7 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/chinashopOOsterrich 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PART  I 
The  Shrine 11 


PART  II 
The  China-Shop 81 

PART  III 
The  Dynasty 223 


PART    I— THE    SHRINE 


L 


[1] 


'^T    ARRY  MUNRO"  .  .  . 

As  ever,  the  repetition  of  the  name,  even 
spoken  by  myself,  goaded  me  through  all 
the  familiar  stages  of  memory  and  exasperation  and 
sense  of  unbearable  injury,  till  it  reached  a  climax 
when  it  seemed  the  whole  universe  was  not  space 
enough  for  me  and  Larry  both;  and  that  one  of  us 
would  be  crowded  out  and  suffocated:  one  of  us  had 
better  die. 

And  I  cared  about  Larry  sufficiently  to  wish  I  might 
be  that  one. 

Here  was  the  grotesque  twist  on  the  situation! 
Simple  hatred  is  a  strain;  but  when  the  hated  oddly 
becomes  also  a  beloved  object,  unconscious  of  offend- 
ing, and  offending  by  mere  existence  and  vitality; 
when  other  persons  and  jealousies  of  other  persons  are 
involved;  when  all  this  tumult  is  separated  in  habita- 
tion by  a  mere  garden  wall,  and  that  in  fact  only,  not 
in  metaphor — then  it  may  be  understood  why  I  was 
seated  in  the  blessed  west-bound  express  which  carried 
me,  a  fugitive  from  Larry  and  Larry  and  Larry 
Munro,  to  a  household  that  knew  only  me,  had  never 
heard  of  Larry;  that  could  not  compare  us,  nor  obvi- 
ously wonder  if  I  suffered  from  such  propinquity  as 

had  been  forced  upon  me;  to  a  family  that,  if  the 

11 


12  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

words  "Larry  Munro"  were  haphazardly  spoken, 
'Would  form  np  swift  mind-picture  of  his  slanting 
faun's  eyes  and  mischievous  crooked  smile  and  red- 
Brown  hair  rushing  sleekly  from  his  forehead  as 
though  combed  backward  by  the  wind. 

And  luxuriating  in  the  prospect  of  such  a  house- 
hold, cool  respite  for  my  chafed  and  elbowed  spirit,  by 
the  time  Devon's  bold  flare  of  colour  waved  like  a  flag 
beyond  my  carriage  window,  I  was  able  dreamily  to 
dissociate  my  ego  from  Larry-saga  and  Larry-idolatry; 
and  marvel  at  the  friendship  between  Felicity  and 
Prue  as  though  it  were  a  thing  of  long  ago,  dimmed 
and  frosted  to  legend;  and  yet  muse  upon  it  with  the 
freshness  of  first-time  wonder.  For  it  was  an  odd 
friendship  oddly  begun;  yet  with  a  lilt  in  its  oddity 
that  rendered  it  almost  divine  .  .  .  Larry  Munro  had 
been  Prue's  husband,  and  was  to  have  been  Felicity's 
husband,  and  they  met  at  his  death-bed. 

[2] 

I  had  stayed  in  the  room  with  Felicity  when  Larry 
Munro  died,  because  I  wanted  to  make  quite  sure  that 
I  was  not  being  humbugged  again:  I  had  twice  seen 
him  die  upon  the  stage,  and  each  time  I  believed  in  it 
with  quiet  satisfaction,  until  the  shock  of  his  subse- 
quent entrance,  splendid  as  ever,  into  Felicity's 
drawing-room.  Such  treatment  naturally  rendered 
me  suspicious. 

Felicity  was  my  mother.     I  do  not  know  how  I 


THE   SHRINE  13 

came  to  call  her  Felicity,  or  when  I  began  to  do  so. 
It  must  have  been  in  the  baby  stages  of  life ;  it  pleased 
her — she  was  only  eighteen  when  I  was  bom,  and 
reluctant  for  motherhood. 

When  the  knock  came  at  the  outer  door,  it  was  I 
who  let  in  the  strange  lady. 

"Larry  Munro?"  she  faltered. 

"Yes.  He  lives  here.  He's  not  very  well  today. 
He'll  soon  be  dead." 

My  six-year-old  attempt  to  "break  the  news  gently" 
was  not  as  successful  as  one  might  have  wished ;  Prue's 
small,  whimsical  features  puckered  suddenly  to 
anguish — she  pushed  past  me  into  the  room  with  the 
big  bed  in  it.  .  .  .  Felicity  was  on  her  knees  at 
the  far  side  of  the  bed  .  .  .  they  must  have 
first  seen  each  other  across  the  prone  body  of  Larry 
Munro. 

Or  possibly  that  pretty  piece  of  symbolism  was 
adjusted  by  my  later  fancy.  I  have  so  often  and  so 
vividly  added  to  my  fragment  memories  of  that  meet- 
ing, by  dramatic  instinct,  and  by  perception  of  Prue 
and  Felicity,  their  ways  and  intonations  and  char- 
acteristics, that  it  would  be  to  me  as  painful  a  process 
to  subtract  now  from  the  inevitable  shape,  complete 
and  luminous,  into  which  I  and  time  have  crystallized 
the  scene,  as  it  would  be  to  see  pieces  wantonly 
chipped  off  a  much-prized  ornament.  For  I  do 
indeed  value  that  scene.  .  .  . 

Through  a  sound  of  ticking  clock  and  the  wash 
of  rain  and  rumble  of  distant  traffic,  I  can  certainly 


14  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

hear  some  one  saying:  "Ought  the  child  to  be  in 
here?" 

It  was  Prue,  the  strange  lady,  who  protested  against 
my  unseemly  presence  in  the  room.  Felicity  had  for- 
gotten me — forgotten  me  rather  more  than  usual — for 
I  was  never  an  acute  reality  to  her.  She  said  vaguely : 
"Go  outside,  Kevin,  and  wait.  ..."  But  I  knew  the 
waiting  would  he  long  and  dull ;  even  the  manservant 
was  out — in  quest  of  the  doctor,  probably;  so  I  decided 
that  just  on  this  one  occasion  I  need  not  uphold 
Felicity's  authority  by  instant  obedience — I  had 
generally,  for  pride's  sake,  to  insist  with  extreme 
punctiliousness  and  care  about  Felicity's  authority 
over  me,  because  she  was  herself  so  liable  to  let  it  sag. 

Larry's  head  lay  on  Prue's  breast;  there  must  have 
been  rest  in  that:  his  wife  again,  the  wife  who  used 
to  make  him  comfortable.  But  his  eyes  were  fixed  in 
drugged  absorption  on  Felicity's  restless  pale-gold 
head.  .  .  .  ^w  women!  it  was  right  that  both  should 
be  present,  since  both  loved  him  greatly. 

And  while  there  was  still  an  atom  of  life  in  him 
to  be  shared,  while  he  was  still  a  male  to  evince  a  last 
faint  preference,  while  his  hand  could  still  move  un- 
certainly in  the  direction  of  one  or  the  other,  while 
it  was  still  undecided  for  whom  the  last  look  was  to 
be,  or  who  had  the  strongest  claim  to  grief,  the  two 
women  clashed  against  one  another's  presence  with  all 
the  resentful  emotion  that  could  be  spared  from  love 
of  Larry  Munro  dying.  But  presently  there  was  a 
change,  a  stir,  and  then  a  greater  silence  in  the  room; 


THE    SHRINE  15 

and  flesh  and  blood  had  ceased  to  be,  and  flesh  and 

blood  rivalry.  .  .  . 

Prue  stole  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  put 

both  her  arms  round  Felicity's  tired,  quivering  figure, 

her  sodden  cheek  against  the  glister  of  pale  gold  hair, 

and  whispered: 

"Oh,  my  poor  girl — my  poor  girl " 

I  think  that  neither  of  them  wept,  but  that  they 

clung  very  closely  together. 


[3] 

But  memory  shorn  and  stripped  can  only  swear  to 
admitting  Prue,  and  "Go  outside,  Kevin"  .  .  .  and 
several  days  or  weeks  afterwards,  a  move  from  our 
own  house  into  another  neighbourhood;  a  boy,  not 
much  older  than  I,  whistling  astride  a  garden  wall; 
and  myself  looking  curiously  up  at  him  and  demand- 
ing his  name. 

"Larry  Munro." 

"You  can't  be.     He's  dead." 

"I'm  Larry  Munro  all  the  same,  I  tell  you." 

"But — but  I  tell  you  he's  dead.  I  saw  him  dead. 
You  cant  be  Larry  Munro,"  I  reiterated  suddenly, 
afraid,  nevertheless,  that  this  horror  of  resurrection 
might  be  just  possible.  There  was  no  very  definite 
likeness  between  the  Larry  Munro  of  forty-one  and 
the  boy  on  the  garden  wall — and  yet — if  any 
other  creature  on  earth  had  claimed  to  be  Larry 
Munro,  I  would  have  wholly  scouted  the  notion;  to 


16  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

me,  a  name  was  then  so  inseparably  attached  to  a 
personality,  that  a  man  dead  meant  the  name  dead  too, 
as  much  as  his  limbs  or  his  sight  and  hearing;  I, 
Kevin  Somers,  would  have  been  stumned  past  all 
reasoning  at  the  news  that  there  was  another  Kevin 
Somers  in  the  world.  And  I  had  seen  Larry  Munro 
dead — dead — dead — I  chanted  in  unholy  triumph 
...  to  quell  misgivings  that  whispered:  "I  wish 
that  boy  would  go  away  before  Felicity  comes  out — I 
don't  want  Felicity  to  see  that  boy.  .  .  ." 

[4] 

Strangers  and  infrequent  visitors  were  bothered  and 
perplexed  by  our  two  adjoining  and  very  much  inter- 
mingled households.  It  was  good  fun  to  hear  them 
comment  on  possible  relationships;  fixing  up  a  joint 
family  tree  which  branched  us  together  weirdly  and 
wonderfully ;  speculating  why  a  bust  of  Larry's  father 
should  stand  in  Felicity's  studio.  They  usually  ended 
by  assuming  me  certainly  to  be  a  stepson  of  somebody- 
or-other — which  was  not  imhumorous,  if  I  chose  to 
regard  it  without  bitterness;  by  leaving  out  the  late 
Gilbert  Somers  altogether;  and  by  wondering  why 
Prue's  brother  Wentworth  permitted  the  irregular 
intimacy. 

Wentworth  himself  admitted  it  to  be  irregular;  but 
explained  carefully  that  of  course  he  would  not  have 
permitted  it  had  Felicity  been  actually  married  to 
Larry  Munro,  but  as  he  had  died  four  days  before- 
hand, she  was  really  no  relation.  .  .  . 


THE   SHRINE  17 

Wentworth  Sheppard  had  charged  himself  with  the 
care  of  Prue  and  Prue's  son,  after  she  had  divorced 
her  scapegrace  husband — divorce  that  nearly  broke 
her  hearty — but  she  was  older  than  Larry  Munro,  and 
she  had  plagued  him  too  little  and  loved  him  too  well, 
so  he  left  her  with  a  baby  of  eighteen  months  .  .  . 
ran  off  with  the  Adventuress  of  his  company  of  tour- 
ing melodrama,  even  as  he  had  once  run  off  with  Prue 
herself — Prudence,  of  Quaker  stock,  cooped  up  over- 
long  with  exacting  religion  and  stiff,  horsehair  fumi^ 
ture  and  a  querulous  mother — even  as  he  had  nearly 
run  off  with  the  rich  girl-widow  Felicity  Somers. 
Larry  Munro  made  his  success  off  and  on  the  stage 
by  bold  abduction:  the  Young  Lochinvar  style  of 
courtship,  toned  down  and  re-dressed  to  suit  the  nine- 
teenth century;  but  given  full  play  as  swashbuckler 
and  highwayman  in  the  numerous  "costume  dramas" 
through  which  he  dashed  and  duelled  and  eloped  and 
proved  his  honour  ringingly,  night  after  night,  till  his 
last  illness  took  him  by  the  throat.  Nevertheless,  I 
am  persuaded  that  this  Larry  must  have  been  some- 
thing more  than  a  cloak-and-dagger  hero,  which  might 
have  sufficed  for  the  Adventuress,  but  would  hardly 
have  exacted  such  luminous  and  steadfast  passion 
from  women  like  Felicity  and  Prue.  What  was  the 
deep,  hidden  spring  of  the  fascination? — an  un- 
quenchable wild  optimism  that  walked  with  head 
thrown  back  through  the  most  sodden  mire  of  diffi- 
culties?— gay  conviction  that  he  could  twirl  romance 
as  one  twirls  a  trencher,  and  keep  it  a-twirl  at  his 


18  THECHINASHOP 

pleasure? — blend  of  exasperating  child  and  chubby- 
egoist  and  good-looking  braggart? — was  he  really  no 
more  individual  than  this  stale  type,  for  whom  Felicity 
could  go  tragically  restless  and  alone  through  the 
years  of  my  schoolboyhood?  memory-driven  as  dust 
before  the  wind;  her  moments  sharp  and  salty  with 
unfulfilled  longings:  .  .  .  "If  only  he  had  lived  four 
days  longer!"  But  she  had  been  cheated  of  Larry;  he 
had  never  been  wholly  hers — never,  never;  and  now 
she  could  only  guess  of  the  golden  lover  he  might  have 
been.  And  Prue,  while  so  often  she  sat — I  have  seen 
her — ^with  Wentworth  reading  aloud  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fire,  and  her  lips  twitching  to  a  secret  smile, 
part  roguish  .  .  .  she  might  well  have  been  thinking 
of  that  good  year  or  two  before  Larry  had  abandoned 
her. 

And  yet,  with  these  evidences  before  me  of  a  thing 
unquenchable,  I  had  dared  to  suppose  death  would 
have  rid  me  of  Larry  Munro?  Why — ours  were  no 
two  houses  side  by  side,  but  one  house  in  which  lived 
Prue  and  Felicity  and  a  shrine  and  a  boy.  .  .  . 
Wentworth  and  I  and  the  garden  wall  were  the  sole 
unrealities;  only  Wentworth  had  not  perceived  it, 
which  was  fortunate  for  him.  And  I  had.  Went- 
worth and  I  were  the  disconnected  shadows  of  the 
household,  tolerated,  honoured  even,  as  tiresome,  sur- 
face attadhments  of  the  surface  life  which  Felicity  and 
Prue  had  led  before  they  came  together  as  mourners. 

They  were  a  quaint  and  incongruous  couple; 
Felicity  was  so  much  the  younger  as  almost  to  be  of 


THE   SHRINE  19 

another  generation;  Felicity,  with  her  delicate,  forlorn 
beauty;  her  wanton  carelessness  of  consequence;  her 
brilliance,  which  flickered  with  eerie  suddenness  into 
speech  or  judgment  or  creation,  and  then  would  as 
suddenly  sheathe  itself  in  a  quality  of  haziness,  leav- 
ing her  helplessly  incapable  of  living  through  a 
moment  of  her  life  without  direction  and  support; 
Felicity,  "entertaining"  in  a  setting  which  scoffed  at 
expense,  was  not  unlike  a  complete  and  successful  em- 
bodiment of  a  Society  Paragraph.  But  Felicity  deal- 
ing with  tradesmen,  children,  officials,  animals  or 
servants,  behaved — well,  more  like  a  wistful,  charm- 
ing idiot  than  a  responsible  human.  Prue,  who  from 
the  first  day  we  moved  into  the  grey,  rambling  house 
incongruously  planted  next  door  to  her  own  neat  red- 
brick villa,  took  Felicity  vigorously  in  hand,  even  Prue 
sometimes  despaired  of  drilling  the  other's  errant 
waywardness  into  practical  conformity. 

She  was  a  dear,  quaint  body,  this  wife  of  Larry  the 
first;  full  of  sharp  little  economies,  and  method  with 
servants,  and  resource  over  a  bum,  blister  or  birth. 
Neighbours  were  continually  sending  for  her  in 
emergencies — there  was  a  flavour  of  village  midwife 
about  her  career;  perhaps  a  Quaker  grandmother  had 
been  famous  in  this  profession.  She  destroyed  senti- 
ment by  a  brisk  rub-up  the  wrong  way  till  its  sleekness 
was  all  a-spike  and  a-tingle ;  but  she  could  worry  over 
irrelevant  people's  irrelevant  worries — provided  they 
were  tangible — with  an  activity  that  astounded  Felic- 


20  THECHINASHOP 

ity,  to  whom  fellow-creatures  existed  either  as  a  dim 
crowd  jostling  somewhere  in  space,  or  else  as  one 
single  being  who  had  exacted  fearful  sacrifice  and 
worship. 

Prue's  mentality  was  plain,  not  spotted;  and  she 
had  only  good  to  say  of  others — unless  it  were  a  burst 
of  honest  and  deserved  indignation.  That,  too,  per- 
plexed Felicity,  who  could  damn  any  one  who  bored 
her,  quite  regardless  of  their  virtues;  that  is  to  say, 
she  oould  achieve  damnation  for  them  with  a  phrase 
let  fall  so  absent-mindedly  as  to  lead  you  to  believe 
she  might  just  as  well  have  meant  it  for  some  one 
else — till  you  came  to  think  it  over.  Felicity's  entire 
life  conveyed  an  impression  of  an  inspired  thing 
broug'ht  about  by  a  series  of  vague  and  happy  acci- 
dents .  .  .  you  oould  almost  catch  your  breath  and 
thank  Heaven  for  abstaining  from  the  slip  which 
would  have  ruined  all.  Her  beauty  was  thus,  and  her 
sculpture;  she  never  tried  for  the  elusive  like- 
ness, but  looking  the  other  way,  as  it  were,  tossed  it 
over  her  shoulder,  and  it  happened.  By  the  same 
process,  it  appeared  a  wonder  that  the  people  who 
loved  her  most,  did  not  hate  her  most  .  .  .  she  had 
caught  their  devotion  miraculously  by  the  skin  of 
her  teeth. 

And  again,  it  was  Felicity's  perverse  nature  that 
caused  her  to  exact  devotion  from  the  one  source  where 
it  was  never  forthcoming — from  her  servants.  Ser- 
vants drifted  in  and  strayed  out  of  our  household — 
you  could  not  say  she  was  ever  quite  definite  enough 


THE   SHRINE  21 

to  engage  them  or  give  them  notice — and  she  never 
ceased  to  expect  in  them  the  dogged  attachment  of 
old  family  retainers — ^the  silver-headed  type  that 
would  bring  her  their  savings  when  she  was  ruined, 
and  beg  to  be  allowed  to  stay  on  without  wages; 
she  would  not  even  have  minded  a  little  bullying  from 
these:  "Old  servants  are  naturally  tyrants,  aren't 
they,  Prue?"  .  .  .  but  the  not  unreasonable  indiffer- 
ence towards  her  mistress's  personal  happiness  dis- 
played by  a  parlourmaid  of  a  fortnight's  standing, 
sent  Felicity  petulantly  complaining  next  door,  where 
Prue  laboured  under  no  delusion  that  Martha  the  cook 
would  die  for  her,  but  saw  to  it  that  Martha  did  not 
waste  gravy. 

"Oh  dear,  Prue,  I  didn't  mean  to  disturb  you  on 
your  At  Home  day  ...  I  had  forgotten;  let  me 
escape  before  any  more  of  your  dreadfully  dull 
visitors  begin  to  arrive.  .  .  .  That's  the  lady  with  a 
disgraceful  husband  who  has  been  forbidden  by  the 
company  to  travel  on  the  London  South-Westem  rail- 
way because  he  insults  first-class  female  passengers 
when  they're  alone,  isn't  she?  I  think  it  is  so  nice  of 
him  to  want  to  insult  ^^5^class  passengers  ...  it 
shows,  in  a  way,  that  he  has  the  instincts  of  a  gentle- 
man— but  it  all  doesn't  make  her  any  less  dull;  isn't 
it  odd? — one  would  suppose  it  might  brighten  her 
up.  Prue,  darling,  how  can  you  have  any  one  in 
your  drawing-room  who  wears  black  thread  gloves? 
Or  is  it  sort  of  doing  penance  for  her  husband  like 
Jane  Shore?     Would  you  like  me  to  go  and  talk  to 


22  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

her?"  After  which  fairly  audible  monologue,  Felicity- 
would  seat  herself  beside  the  visitor  under  discus- 
sion, and  encircle  her  about  and  about  in  charm,  till 
Mrs.  Western  waddled  home  in  an  invisible  silken 
mesh  of  Felicity's  winding.  "And  I  never  once  asked 
her  how  Mr.  Shore  contrives  to  get  about  without 
travelling,  though  I  was  really  interested  to  know." 

Prue  cried  in  despair:  "My  dear  child,  poor  Mr. 
Western — ^Western,  not  Shore " 

"Well,  why  did  you  tell  me  his  name  was  Shore?" 

"I  did  not,  Felicity! — and  he  was  a  most  highly 
respected  railway  official,  only  his  doctor  had  to  forbid 
him  to  travel  alone  towards  the  end  of  his  life  be- 
cause his  heart  wasn't  strong;  he  died  of  syncope  at 
last,  and  she's  still  in  mourning." 

But  Felicity  invariably  dotted  her  t's  and  crossed 
her  i's.  And  w^hen  corrected  and  carefully  shown  at 
what  exact  stage  of  fact  she  had  begun  to  go  astray,  she 
would  listen  attentively,  as  to  a  new  story  altogether, 
and  be  impressed  by  it  to  such  an  extent  .  .  .  that 
her  previous  mistake  was  dinted  in  deeper  even  than 
before.  There  was  an  obstinate  blank  spot  in  Feli- 
city's brain;  fifty  times  contradicted  and  scratched 
out,  the  scandal  of  Mr.  Western  and  the  lonely  fe- 
male passenger  would  survive  and  become  an  ob- 
session. /  knew  it  was  safest  to  pass  over  the  original 
error,  and  trust  that  Felicity  would  forget  the  whole 
story.  But  Prue  never  ceased  from  striving  to  make 
her  accurate,  domestic,  and  methodical.  I  wonder 
how  Prue  managed  to  be  all  these  things  herself,  and 


THE    SHRINE  23 

yet  never  be  wearisome  to  Felicity;  as  I  wonder  how 
Felicity  continued  to  be  her  fantastic  self,  and  never 
shock  Prue.  Unless,  for  memory's  sake.  Felicity 
conquered  her  faculty  for  being  bored,  and  Prue  her 
faculty  for  being  outraged. 

And  even  where  memory  of  Larry  Munro  steeped 
them  like  two  entirely  different  fabrics  in  the  same 
rich  dye,  they  characteristically  retained  their  contrast. 
Prue  never  mentioned  his  name;  her  soul  scurried  past 
this  dominating  passion  of  her  life  as  though  fright- 
ened of  it — a  sombre,  flame-tipped  mountain  in  an 
aspect  of  tiny  molehills  .  .  .  How  had  it  come  to  be 
there?  Or,  in  a  more  practical  morning  mood,  you 
could  almost  hear  her  reasoning  with  the  mountain: 
"Come,  come,  no  such  nonsense!  you're  in  the  way 
here,  can't  you  see  that?  Everything  in  its  proper 
place  and  time,  and  give  as  little  trouble  as  you  can, 
because  this  is  Monday  and  I've  got  my  hands  full 
up  with  work." 

No,  it  was  not  in  shame  that  she  denied  herself 
expression  of  her  love  for  Larry  Munro ;  but  to  her  it 
may  well  have  seemed  that  such  divinely  tender 
friendship  with  Felicity  was  memorial  enough — it 
stood  solidly  erected  for  any  one  to  see.  A  super- 
fluity of  sighs  and  sobs  and  small,  sacred  recollections 
exchanged  between  them  would  have  brought  to  the  in- 
timacy a  flavour  of  indecency,  to  Prue's  mind. 

Only  Felicity  had  a  disconcerting  habit  of  speak- 
ing of  the  late  Larry  just  whenever  it  occurred  to  her 
— "My  dear,  you  can't  expect  me  to  look  on  your  son 


24  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

as  an  Immaculate  Conception,  as  Wentworth  does!" 
— lightly  violating  poor  Prue's  most  fundamental  re- 
ligious and  social  instincts,  and  completing  the  horror 
by  causing  her  to  laugh — for  Prue  had  a  nimble  sense 
of  humour,  and  the  apt  remark  about  Wentworth 
delighted  her. 

Wentworth  Sheppard  was  an  old  maid,  small  and 
neat  as  his  sister;  and  with  a  certain  likeness  to  King 
George  in  his  pointed  beard  and  the  cut  and  hang  of 
him  generally,  on  which  resemblance  he  built  up  a 
whole  formal  attitude.  He  cultivated  the  extreme 
simplicity  of  good  form  in  his  household — was  not  the 
Royal  Family  notoriously  addicted  to  rice  pudding 
diet,  symbolic  and  actual?  Fortunately,  Wentworth's 
mild  mania  in  this  respect  accorded  well  with  Prue's 
essays  in  economy.  He  rarely  talked  haphazardly, 
but  "conversed  with  intelligent  interest  on  all  topics." 
To  strangers  and  visitors,  he  Unbent  Genially — ^you 
could  watch  him  doing  it  like  clockwork.  He  drank 
water,  because  Prue  considered  wine  a  medicine,  not 
a  beverage;  but  he  drank  water  portentously,  with  the 
air  of  Setting  an  Example  to  the  Nation.  And  though 
he  longed  to  spoil  Larry,  he  strove  hard  that  his 
nephew  should  receive  an  education  of  severe  practi- 
cability, in  ignorance  (after  the  manner  of  Royalties) 
that  he  was  heir  to  a  throne.  .  .  . 

Or  heir  to  a  shrine.  But  then  Wentworth  himself 
was  ignorant  of  the  importance  of  the  shrine  in  our 
midst.  Dubious  at  first  over  the  proximity  of  the 
Somers,  he  very  soon  took  a  fancy  to  Felicity — ah, 


THE   SHRINE  25 

Felicity  saw  to  that! — ^and  even  began  to  trust  that 
the  society  of  himself  and  his  sister  might  be  benefi- 
cial to  her.  "If  not  too  upsetting  for  you,  Prue,  my 
dear?" — and  might  in  time,  by  representing  the  un- 
ostentatious spectacle  of  a  quiet,  wholesome,  happy 
English  home,  tone  down  a  certain  regrettable  exuber- 
ance in  Felicity's  environment,  and — and, — well, 
something  like  astigmatism  in  her  moral  outlook. 

Wentworth  and  Felicity  continued,  till  the  end,  on 
terms  of  the  most  amiable  cross-purpose.  She  thought 
that  she  was  managing  him,  and  he  thought  that  he 
was  influencing  her.  Prue  laughed  at  them  both,  and 
— metaphorically — flipped  them  with  her  duster. 

Wentworth's  one  instinctive  concession  to  the  shrine 
of  an  undesirable  brother-in-law  was  his  reluctance  to 
include  an  intelligent  interest  in  the  theatre,  among  his 
other  exhibitions  of  broad-mindedness.  He  did  not 
care  for  his  sister  to  visit  the  theatre  at  all — he  evi- 
dently thought  it  might  remind  her  of  what  she  had 
forgotten. 

Young  Larry  neither  sang  nor  recited,  nor  dis- 
played any  other  prodigy  inheritance — except  a  tend- 
ency to  whistle,  whistle  from  morning  till  night.  I 
can  hear  him,  mournful,  exultant,  melodious  .  .  . 
up  and  down  the  stairs,  splashing  in  his  bath,  down  the 
garden  in  his  scamper  next  door.  .  .  .  He  was  nearly 
always  next  door — ^with  us. 

[5] 
What  chance  did  I  stand  against  Larry?     I,  who 


26  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

was  in  all  outward  respects  a  reproduction  of  Gilbert 
Somers.  Had  I  been  able  to  make  Felicity  love  me 
better,  she  would  have  loved  my  father  for  looking 
like  me,  so  it  was  all  my  fault.  .  .  , 

This  was  my  infantile  reasoning. 

But  I  learnt  to  reverse  the  argument  to  its  proper 
sequence,  when  I  saw  what  young  Larry  gained  in 
spontaneous  tenderness  and  privilege  of  caress, 
through  being  the  son  of  Larry  Munro.  I  learnt 
definitely  what  I  had  always  suspected ;  that  my  father, 
that  handsome  picture  of  a  cavalier,  with  the  blank 
wall  behind  his  looks,  had  disappointed  the  radiant, 
all-expectant  girl,  whom  he  had  married  out  of  the 
schoolroom,  to  a  state  of  indifference  bordering  on 
apathy.     And  this  was  my  inheritance. 

Well,  I  had  never  worn  myself  out  fretting  against 
Felicity's  vapoury  lack  of  demonstration,  while  I 
thought  it  was  her  nature,  unalterable,  to  be  accepted 
with  a  philosophic  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  .  .  .  But 
presently  I  was  to  watch  the  awakening  of  all  her 
warm  maternity — and  for  a  contemporary  of  my  own. 
It  was  an  interesting  spectacle,  but  rather  too  poign- 
antly so  where  I  was  concerned.  "I'm  her  own  son, 
and  he  isn't!  It  must  make  a  difference — it  must. 
Nothing  he  does  will  make  him  as  if  he  was  her 
son!"  .  .  .  Ah,  but  I  had  never  guessed  she  could 
be  so  adorable  with  the  child  she  loved  .  .  .  bright 
flushed  cheeks,  and  her  hand  rumpling  through  his 
hair;  a  thousand  whimsical  distractions  planned  that 
the  little  scamp  might  not  feel  dull;  a  thousand  absurd 


THE   SHRINE  27 

nonsense  names  she  invented  for  him:  "Larrikin"  and 
"Humpty"  (because  she  had  first  seen  him  sitting  on 
a  wall).  .  .  .  Soft,  husky  inflection  in  her  voice 
when  she  called  to  him — "Hallo,  Larry  darling,  I've 
got  a  surprise  for  you!"  .  .  .  There  were  always 
surprises  for  Larry.  And  she  never  forgot  to  consult 
his  tastes,  and  to  cater  for  them;  she,  with  memory 
usually  so  misted,  could  recall  exactly,  and  to  a  shade, 
what  young  Larry  liked. 

This  was  different  treatment  and  a  different  atmos- 
phere from  the  austerity  of  his  own  home,  where 
Wentworth  advocated  good  form  in  the  shape  of 
boiled  milk  puddings  and  plenty  of  cold  water;  and 
Prue  alternately  slapped  and  chaffed  her  only  son  out 
of  all  possible  affectations,  swagger,  and  extrava- 
gances. Prue  believed  firmly  that  all  boys  were 
healthy  young  animals,  who  hated  superfluous  carpets 
and  fuss,  and  were  all  the  worse  for  coddling  unless 
they  were  ill,  which  they  had  no  right  to  be.  Though 
deep  down  in  her  heart  Larry  was  acknowledged  a 
very  special  boy  indeed,  though  she  was  wrapt  up  in 
him  to  the  exclusion  of  every  one  else ;  yet  even  to  him 
the  stock  rules  applied :  Give  him  plenty  to  do,  plenty 
of  exercise,  plenty  of  wholesome  food;  see  that  he 
wears  flannels  in  winter,  make  him  wash  behind  the 
ears  and  be  kind  to  animals,  give  him  only  sixpence  a 
week  pocket-money,  let  the  man  of  the  house  thrash 
him  as  often  as  he  is  discovered  in  mischief — and  with 
a  bit  of  luck  he  will  grow  up  into  a  plucky,  clean- 
limbed, creditable  young  Englishman. 


28  THECHINASHOP 

It's  the  bit  of  luck  that  so  often  fails  these  dealers 
in  the  generic  boy. 

Larry  was  a  glorious  little  ruffian — but  with  senses 
thrillingly  flexible  and  resilient.  He  could  give  and 
take  in  the  touch  market  without  self -consciousness 
ever  cramping  him  to  unnatural  self -control.  And 
Prue,  who  was  sure  that  all  boys  must  necessarily  hate 
being  fussed  over,  Prue  was  a  martyr  to  her  own  con- 
viction, which  she  would  not  allow  to  make  exception, 
even  in  the  case  where  she  most  longed  to  make  it. 
While  Felicity,  less  wise — Felicity  got  the  kisses! 

Though  I  doubt  if  Prue  minded.  I  imagined  her 
using  the  argument:  "After  all,  I'm  his  own 
mother!"  with  a  great  deal  more  success  than  I  could 
infuse  into  my  similiar  tag:  "After  all,  I'm  her  own 
son!"  And  verily,  if  I  had  gone  to  Prue  claiming 
any  sort  of  kinship  of  jealous  suffering,  she  would 
have  blown  my  head  off  in  a  gale  of  common  sense 
and  banter  and  cheery  misconception  .  .  .  some- 
times I  nearly  understood  why  Larry  the  first  had 
run  away  from  this  perpetual  process  of  having  a 
waste-paper  basket  clapped  over  his  enthusiasm. 

Larry  loved  his  mother — carelessly.  Wentworth 
bored  and  irritated  him;  so  did  the  Spartan  rigours  of 
home — as  applied  to  the  little  Princes  of  Wales. 
Prue's  mistake  had  been  never  to  pander  to  the  in- 
cipient man  in  him.  Larry  was  her  baby,  her 
only  child — ^but  these  are  both  sexless  terms.  He  was 
enervated  by  the  more  barbaric  blow  of  colour  in  the 


THE   SHRINE  29 

house  next  door;  the  soft  glimmer  and  sheen  of 
Felicity's  idolatry  could  not  fail  to  appeal  to  him. 
His  Palace  Beautiful,  with  its  pictures  and  books  and 
rugs  and  statuary,  was  irresistibly  new  and  jolly,  and 
even  furnished  complete  with  a  comrade  in  the  boy 
line.  Oh  yes,  he  liked  me.  So,  indeed,  did  Felicity 
.  .  .  she  liked  me  very  much.  And  she  never  forgot 
her  exquisite  manners  so  far  as  to  let  me  feel  left 
out;  I  was  given  everything — tangible — that  Larry 
was  given.  But,  "Kev  and  I  are  not  demonstrative; 
we  understand  each  other!" 

Undoubtedly  she  would  have  missed  my  clenched 
protection.  She  consulted  me  at  intervals  with  as 
much  deference  as  though  I  were  the  old  family 
solicitor.  And  when  I  gradually  developed  a  brain 
and  a  caustic  sense  of  humour,  she  confided  in  me  her 
grateful  relief  that  she  was  not  doomed  to  dwell  for 
ever  with  a  person — "as  stupid  as  that  terrible  man, 
Gilbert  Somers — your  poor,  dear  father,  you  know, 
Kevin!"  Our  meals  began  to  be  enlivened  by  mutual 
and  brilliant  word-sparring.  In  fact,  I  was  a  com- 
bination of  minor  uses,  such  as  one  can  seldom  hope 
to  find  in  a  son.     Only 

Oh,  mother,  mother,  your  arms  round  me  once,  as 
so  often  they  were  flung  round  Larry.  .  .  . 

Well,  one  cannot  always  be  a  cynic  and  a  phil- 
osopher— at  eight  and  nine  and  ten  years  old.  Some- 
times at  night,  I  used  to  behave  like  a  very  babyish 
small  boy — just  by  way  of  a  change. 


30  THECHINASHOP 

[6] 

Larry  was  eight  and  I  was  six  when  our  seniors, 
with  that  callous  disregard  for  any  possible  incom- 
patibility of  tempers  in  beings  not  yet  adult,  plumped 
us  down  in  gardens  indifferently  separated,  and  said 
that  we  would  soon  be  great  friends.  As  it  happens, 
their  prophecy  was  realized. 

I  had  just  managed  to  hate  Larry  the  first,  terrified 
all  the  time  that  he  would  exert  himself  to  overcome 
my  scowls.  ...  I  had  seen  Felicity's  opposition 
melted  like  froth  by  the  darlin'  wicked  ways  of  him, 
as  Irish  tongues  would  twist  it;  and  I  knew  how  easily 
I  would  capitulate  if  he  once  turned  his  attention 
seriously  to  such  unimportant  conquest.  But  I  bored 
him  and  fidgeted  him;  he  used  to  say  discourteously: 
"Get  rid  of  the  brat,  Felicity!"  ...  So  I  just 
managed  to  hate  him — con  dmore — till  the  end.  I 
could  sympathize  with  Felicity,  though,  in  her  infat- 
uation— my  God,  yes! 

Larry  the  second — little  brute! — decided  that  a 
chum  of  more  or  less  his  own  age  would  be  a  handy 
matter  to  have  next  door  .  .  .  and  the  rest  was  a 
foregone  conclusion. 

Primarily  we  tumbled  into  mischief  together,  and 
were  together  lectured  by  Wentworth — that  formed  a 
bond.  It  happened  again,  and  he  punished  Larry 
severely,  and  sent  round  a  perfectly  polite  message 
to  Felicity  requesting  that  she  should  do  the  same  by 
me,  or,  lacking  the  strength,  permit  him  the  privilege, 
as  he  considered  it  a  blow  to  a  boy's  fundamental 


THE   SHRINE  31 

sense  of  justice  that  where  two  were  equally  in  fault, 
only  one  should  suffer.  Felicity,  looking  worried, 
consulted  me : 

"Oh  dear,  Kevin,  must  I  take  any  notice  of  this?" 

"You'd  better  let  me  hear  the  letter," — ^non-com- 
mittal for  the  moment. 

She  read  it  aloud. 

"What  a  fuss!" 

"Isn't  it?"  she  agreed  delightfully;  "but  we  don't 
want  to  quarrel  with  the  old  man,  do  we?  It  would 
make  things  so  awkward  for  Prue.  Do  you  think  if  I 
sent  you  to  bed — ?" 

As  it  was  then  already  past  eight  o'clock  p.  M.,  it 
struck  even  my  understanding  that  such  punishment 
would  not  be  regarded  by  Wentworth  as  adequate. 
But  it  annoyed  me  that  Felicity  should  be  bothered, 
and  I  soothed  her  by  a  promise  to  step  round  to 
Wentworth  the  following  morning  and  let  him  do  his 
damndest. 

It  was  not  a  horrible  precocity  on  my  part  which 
prevented  me  from  evading  punishment  where  evasion 
was  so  easy;  but  an  inarticulate  conviction,  early 
forced  upon  me  and  accepted  in  a  semi-humorous 
spirit,  that  Felicity  was  too  indifferent  for  her  job 
where  I  was  concerned,  and  that  a  spoilt,  whining 
infant  would  bring  discredit  upon  her — shame  her 
incapacity  in  sight  of  the  world.  By  pretending  that 
I  was  disciplined  by  a  rod  of  some  severity,  I  could 
keep  up  appearances  for  Felicity's  sake;  but  the  ro3 
was  in  my  own  hand. 


32  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

It  was  typical  of  Felicity  that  she  did  not  even  ask 
what  was  the  offence  we  hoys  had  committed;  some- 
thing to  do  with  taps  left  running  till  a  stair-carpet 
was  ruined,  I  believe — nothing  serious,  at  all  events; 
but  there  is  quite  an  amount  of  ungodliness  con- 
nected with  cleanliness  when  two  urchins  set  out  to  be 
inventive  in  a  bathroom. 

Larry  and  I  received  a  mild  thrashing  apiece,  and 
then  wandered  out  into  the  garden  to  grumble  in 
fellowship.  Oddly  enough,  I  found  he  held  the  same 
austere  views  as  mine  concerning  the  muffishness  and 
general  lack  of  dignity  about  the  boy  who  has  been 
well  spoilt  at  home.  We  could  neither  of  us  express 
ourselves  on  the  subject,  of  course: 

"Mums  hates  it  when  I  get  into  a  row,  but  she 
always  makes  out  that  I've  done  worse  than  it  is,  case 
old  uncle  lets  me  off ;  an'  then  he  makes  it  out  worse 
'cos  he's  afraid  mums'll  beg  him  not  to  hurt  me — an' 
they  pile  it  up  between  them  so's  I  get  it  worse  than 
if  I  hadn't  been  an  only  child.  An'  yet  mums  adores 
me  so,  she'd  die  for  me  any  time  I  liked." 

"I'm  an  only  child,  too — "  a  pause,  .  .  .  and 
then  I  added:  "My  mother'd  die  for  me  too,  all  over 
the  place." 

Larry  began  to  boast.  "Mums  sat  up  with  me 
two  weeks  without  moving  when  I  had  diphtheria — 
the  doctor  said  he'd  never  seen  such  devotion!" 

And  I  swaggered  back:  "When  I  had  dip-dipferia, 
my  mother  sucked  the  something-or-other  an'  saved 
my  life  an'  the  doctor  said  it  might  have  killed  her  an' 


THE   SHRINE  33 

he^d  never  seen  such  devotion!"  Fiction  had  given 
me  the  advantage  that  time;  Larry  was  momentarily 
damited — and  then  pressed  on: 

"Mums  hasn't  married  again  'cos  of  me;  I  heard 
uncle  say  so." 

"Nor  my  mother  hasn't  married  again  because 
of  me." 

Well — it  was  busy  work,  inventing  Felicity's  "no- 
more-than-natural"  feeling,  even  though  Larry 
had  twice  given  me  the  lead.  My  neck  and  cheeks 
were  burning  hot  with  the  strain,  smarted  under 
Larry's  puckish  gaze — did  he  suspect  me?  To  divert 
his  mind,  I  let  off  an  inconsequent  but  excellent 
imitation  of  "Fi'-fresh-strawbrish"  as  bawled  down 
the  streets  in  June,  by  the  man  with  the  barrow  .  .  . 
an  accomplishment  of  which  I  was  proud;  I  could  do 
the  coal-man's  cry  as  well,  and  the  mufiin-man,  and 
chairs-to-mend.  Larry  listened  with  admiration,  and 
then  suggested  we  should  saunter  innocently  up  the 
road,  and  see  how  many  occupants  of  the  houses  we 
could  draw  to  the  window  and  door  by  my  hoarse 
promise  of  "Fi'-fresh-strawbrish."  .  .  .  The  month 
happened  to  be  November,  which  we  had  forgotten, 
but  otherwise  the  game  was  completely  successful; 
curiosity  ramped  on  to  the  little  iron  balconies,  in 
wonder  whence  the  shout  originated;  and  nobody  sus- 
pected the  demure  little  boy  strolling  on  the  pavement 
beside  the  other  demure  little  boy.  .  .  .  "Street- 
cries"  became  a  favourite  pastime  of  ours,  though 
Larry  never  attained  to  my  pitch  of  excellence;  and 


34  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

was  therefore  the  first  to  tire  of  it,  and  to  suggest  we 
should  return  to  our  old  passion  for  floatables;  that 
is  to  say,  anything  in  the  nature  of  barge,  boat,  raft, 
sail  or  steamer — whatever  requires  water  below  it. 
Presently  we  were  nearly  drowned  together  in  the 
Serpentine;  Larry  boasted  he  had  saved  my  life,  and 
I  contended  hotly  that  I  had  saved  his;  but  as  we 
could  neither  of  us  swim,  perhaps  it  was  the  boat- 
man's credit,  after  all.  And  Prue  promptly  whisked 
us  off  to  the  instructor  at  the  nearest  swimming-baths. 

From  floatables  our  interest  shifted  to  mechanics. 
Felicity's  priceless  Dresden  clock,  Wentworth's  type- 
writer, Prue's  sewing-machine  and  carpet-cleaner, 
were  all  pleasant  to  take  to  pieces  and  investigate ;  our 
favours  were  entirely  impartial,  but  we  were  inter- 
ested to  find  that  on  this  occasion  Prue's  temper  was 
the  worst  of  the  three. 

Love  was  our  subsequent  experience  shared — at 
least,  I  was  pursued  by  the  object  of  Larry's  passion, 
and  he  kicked  me  for  it,  which  I  considered  wholly 
unfair.  "I  don't  want  the  nobby  little  beast" — ^the 
Honourable  Nina  was  the  daughter  of  Lord  Barclay, 
one  of  the  endless  aristocratic  widowers,  relics  of  the 
Somers  period,  whose  aristocratic  feet  decorated  the 
parquet  at  Felicity's  receptions — "can't  you  keep  her 
to  yourself?" 

As  this  was  exactly  what  Larry  most  desired  to  do, 
I  was,  perhaps,  not  being  tactful.  But  Nina's  big 
brown  eyes  and  wavy  black  hair  were  too  like  my  own 
to  rouse  my  dormant  emotions.     It  was  only  weari- 


THE   SHRINE  35 

some  to  have  out-rivalled  Larry  over  a  woman  of  no 
importance — to  me. 

"It's  your  looks,"  he  said,  sitting  astride  of  me, 
and  moodily  reducing  them  to  a  pulp. 

I  did  not  deprecate ;  I  was  a  very  handsome  boy — 
obviously  and  blatantly  handsome,  as  my  father  had 
been.  Mine  was  the  type  of  face  that  led  the  casual 
observer  to  expect  a  character  full  of  cheap  Toreador 
effects.  .  .  .  "Fancy  you  being  so  sarcastic!"  was 
the  astonished  and  disappointed  cry  that  even  at  the 
age  of  eleven  caused  me  an  unholy  inward  glee;  or 
they  supplemented  their  comment — "so  horrid  and 
sarcastic!" — Evidently  the  Hon.  Nina,  one  year  my 
senior,  found  the  blend  attractive. 

Larry  added:  "I  s'pose  it'll  always  be  like  that. 
Why,  even  now  you're  as  big  as  me,  even  though 
you're  only  a  kid.  One  day  a  girl  will  come 
along " 

True  enough!  One  day  a  girl  would  come  along 
...  or  we  would  come  along  to  where  a  girl,  the  girl, 
awaited  us,  two  men — but  I  foretold  as  an  ab- 
solute certainty  only  one  girl — life  was  already  shap- 
ing us  for  the  catastrophe.  And  Larry  would  have 
grown  up  to  that  type  of  ugliness  which  she  would 
presently  begin  to  find  oddly  beautiful;  and  I  to  that 
type  of  beauty  which  she  would  presently  begin  to 
find  oddly  boresome.  .  .  . 

So  vivid  was  my  fancy  at  that  instant,  that  I  could 
see  her,  a  slim  golden  creature  a-sway  towards  Larry 
...  I  was  nowhere  in  the  picture,  and  her  face  was  a 


36  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

dim  mystery,  but  I  was  clearly  aware  of  his  attitude  of 
triumph. 

In  the  case  of  the  Hon.  Nina,  the  preference  had 
only  been  given  to  me  because  I  could  have  dispensed 
with  it.  The  imp  of  destiny  whom  it  amused  that  my 
life  should  everywhere  be  confronted  by  Larry 
Munro,  had  arranged  it  thus.     Next  time 

All  this,  a  barely  coherent  impression,  following 
with  a  rush  on  Larry's  remark  in  the  vein  of  des- 
pondent wooer — I  jerked  my  knees  upwards  and  flung 
him  suddenly  on  to  the  floor — the  signal  for  a  scrap! 
In  a  moment  all  question  of  the  Hon.  Nina  vanished 
to  an  ecstasy  of  squeals  and  pummellings. 

But  next  time — I  began  then  to  watch  out  for  the 
inevitable  occasion  when  the  existence  of  a  Larry 
Munro  on  earth  should  most  eff'ectually  spoil  my 
happiness;  to  watch  for  it,  and  morbidly  to  dread  it 
...  if  it  were  to  be  anything  like  the  vision  of 
Felicity's  maternal  instinct  unfolding  itself. 

Felicity  came  into  the  room,  and  Larry  flashed  her 
one  of  his  impudent  crooked  grins:  "Help! 
Murder!"  he  shouted  boisterously. 

Murder!  .  .  .  our  scuffling  bodies  drew  to  closer 
grips  and  closer  .  .  .  suddenly,  at  the  pressure  of  his 
pinioned  limbs,  my  easy  enjoyment  of  the  scrap 
flared  to  murder  indeed.  .  .  .  My  enemy — Larry's 
father  as  well  as  Larry  himself — I  was  in  physical 
contact  at  last  with  the  elusive.  .  .  .  Larry- 
thing!  .  .  .  More  than  I  could  bear.  .  .  .  Might 
never  happen  again.  .  .  .     Control?     what  does  it 


THE   SHRINE  37 

matter  .  .  .  he — he  doesn't  give  me  room  to 
breathe  .  .  .  and  Felicity.  .  .  . 

If  one  were  to  dig — dig  something  into  him  .  .  . 
Mustn't  let  go — ^no,  don't  let  go  .  .  .  he'll  always  be 
there  if  you  let  go  now — if  you  don't  hurt  him — ^kill 
him — ^with  your  teeth — 

"Damn!   .  .  .     You  young  swine!" 

"Goodness  gracious  me,  boys,  what  language!" 
that  was  Prue,  humorously  admonishing  us.  My 
vicious  fury  was  quenched;  and  I  behaved 
fairly  meekly  while,  in  his  character  of  senior,  Larry 
punished  me  by  a  hearty  thrashing — and  let  me  go. 

"I'll  teach  you  to  bite  when  we  rag!  Good  Lord, 
if  you  can't  fight  good-naturedly " 

I  sought  to  justify  myself  by  ingenious  argument: 
"It's  only  idiots  who  fight  good-naturedly.  Fighting 
is  an  angry  thing  to  start  with.  And  a  good-natured 
fight  is  para — para " 

" — doxical,"  finished  Felicity.  "Ought  he  to  use 
words  like  that,  Prue?  And  ought  we  to  let  a  little 
boy  hit  a  big  one — isn't  there  something  about  it  in 
the  rules?" — helplessly. 

Prue  replied  that  boys  will  be  boys,  and  that 
exercise  on  a  rainy  day  gave  them  appetites — "as  long 
as  they  don't  hurt  the  furniture," — ignoring  the  ethics 
of  the  case. 

"And  which  of  us  is  the  '  little  boy '?"  demanded 
Larry,  still  breathless  from  his  exertion  to  educate  me 
"Kev's  topped  me  by  nearly  half  an  inch,  or — or  of 
course    I    wouldn't — ^what    do    you    think?     He's 


38  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

going  to  be  much  bigger  than  me,"  with  an  injured 
look  towards  Prue's  small,  trim  figure.  Then — "Did- 
dums  hurtums?"  magnanimously  bending  over  me 
where  I  still  lay  gracefully  recumbent.  "What  a 
Sleeping  Bee-yuty!  I  was  lamming  into  him  because 
he  had  such  a  pretty  mug,"  he  further  explained  to 
Prue  and  Felicity.  "Yus — it  was  a  female  woman 
come  between  us!  like  bruvvers  we  wos,  till  then!" 

"So  you  fought  because  of  me,"  murmured  Felic- 
ity, with  a  sort  of  preoccupied  infallibility.  "Did 
you?"  she  pleaded  for  affirmation;  a  new  Guinevere, 
even  in  this  paltry  nursery  squabble  between  two 
youngsters,  unable  to  bear  that  she  should  not  be  the 
queen  about  whose  tormenting  beauty  the  tournament 
had  raged. 

"The  very  idea!  Whatever  next!"  in  brief 
expostulation  from  Prue ;  "boys  don't  fight  about  their 
mothers." 

"But  you  are  not  Kevin's  mother." 

Felicity  meant:  "But  I  am  not  Larry's 
mother." 


[7] 

"Good  night.  Felicity." 

I  hovered  near  the  door,  stretching  out  my  cramped 
courage  to  its  utmost.  Perhaps  Larry  was  only  re- 
warded because  he  took  the  confident  initiative; 
perhaps  if  I  once  smashed  the  accepted  formula: 
"Kev  and  I  are  not  demonstrative."  .  .  . 


THE   SHRINE  39 

Her  head  was  bent  musingly  over  a  form  of  em- 
broidery— spangling,  I  think  it  was  called ;  a  tiny  gold 
disc  shimmered  on  her  poised  needle;  a  glittering 
shower  was  poured  from  the  wee,  glass-lidded  box  on 
the  table  beside  her;  the  standard  lamp  with  its  amber 
silk  shade  spilt  more  gold  on  her  cloudy  hair. 

I  broke  indecision  like  a  stick  across  my  knee ;  sped 
across  the  room,  and  .  .  .  kissed  her.  Only  once — 
but  she  must  have  felt  my  heart  thumping  against  her 
side.  .  .  . 

Never  again! — oh,  never  again  while  I  live!  That 
upward  look  of  casual  astonishment  was  enough.  .  .  . 

"Oh?— good  night,  Kev." 

[8] 

School  was  a  disappointment.  I  had  hoped  that 
among  such  a  large  selection  of  boys,  I  would  easily 
find  a  substitute  for  Larry  as  comrade ;  thus  setting  me 
free  to  hate  him,  roundly  and  smoothly,  uncomplicated 
by  the  want  of  him  and  the  love  of  him.  I 
assured  myself  that  Larry  was  indispensable  merely 
as  a  result  of  circumscribed  choice. 

The  boys  of  Runchester  were  all  right.  The  boys 
of  Wilton  House,  our  preparatory  school,  had  also 
been  all  right.  Only — only — Good  Lord! — I  grew 
impatient — surely  at  least  one  of  them  might  have 
contrived  to  put  up  a  better  show  against  my  incubus! 
Just  something  in  the  eager  poise  of  his  body 
when  he  ran;  the  careless  blackbird  note  of  his  whist- 


40  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

ling;  just  the  wickedness  in  his  slanting  no-coloured 
eyes,  which  were  almost  sloe-green,  and  not  quite 
yellow,  and  often  hazel — all  the  woodland  tints — oh, 
and  his  naive  manner  of  toppling  his  whole  life  on  to 
the  nearest  and  handiest  shoulders  and  leaving  it 
there ;  a  queer  trick  he  had  of  following  up  a  remark 
compounded  all  of  joyous  swagger,  by  an  outburst  of 
super-swagger  so  out  of  proportion  and  ridiculous  as 
to  convey  the  impression  he  sought:  that  really  he  had 
only  been  fooling  the  first  time  also ! 

If  I  could  once  have  arrested  myself  in  full  swing 
of  hating  Larry,  I  do  honestly  believe  that  I  need 
never  have  started  again.  But  he  gave  me  no  chance 
to  stop;  here  at  school,  worse  even  than  at  home,  he 
elbowed  me  out  of  existence;  sunnily  unconscious  of 
the  process,  but  perfecting  it,  it  would  almost  seem, 
by  mechanism. 

I  was  not  temperamentally  jealous,  that  I  swear. 
Mine  was  a  locked  jealousy,  stagnant  around  one 
object,  as  opposed  to  the  tidal  jealousy  which  ebbs  and 
flows  and  overflows  and  swamps  indiscriminately. 
Beyond  Larry,  the  creatures  of  the  universe  might 
have  their  hearts'  desires  granted  to  them,  and  I  could 
decently  rejoice,  even  help  them  to  attainment; 
beyond  Larry,  I  winced  at  hearing  no  person  praised; 
nor  grudged  them  their  meed  of  fortune.  Beyond 
Larry.  .  .  . 

But  they  were  wrong  who  said  there  was  always 
enough  to  go  round,  whether  of  love,  or  popularity,  or 
success.     Some  grinning  malignancy  had  arranged 


THE   SHRINE  41 

that  what  was  more  for  Larry  Munro  should  be  less 
for  Kevin  Somers,  always  and  always. 

Steady  now!  No  good  to  batter  yourself  against 
defeat  pre-ordained.  Steady — you'll  hurt  your- 
self! Look — it's  quite  a  good  joke  really  .  .  . 
can  you  laugh  at  it?  Excellent!  Then  you're  not 
mad   .    .    .   just  for  a  second  I  was  afraid .... 

What  I  began  to  do  at  school  was  this:  to  annex 
bits  of  the  world  for  myself,  populate  them,  and 
fortify  them  against  Larry.  Every  new  friendship  I 
regarded  as  a  spiked  fortification. 

And  Larry  slipped  through  the  spikes. 

He  must  have  known — the  happy  persistence  with 
which  he  invariably  chummed  with  my  latest  chum 
proved  it.  Sometimes,  even  while  my  selection  was 
still  unspoken — a  mental  gesture  of  "you'11-do-next," 
even  then  a  series  of  tiny  accidents  would  incredibly 
bring  about  an  encounter  between  Larry  and  this  par- 
ticular boy;  I  would  have  to  watch  them  beginning 
to  like  each  other;  then  quietly  I  renounced  the  claim, 
no  one  the  wiser  for  my  silent  choice  and  withdrawal. 
Friendships  which  included  Larry  were  obviously  no 
use  to  me,  foreseeing  times  when  my  nerves  would 
urgently  cry  aloud,  yelp  in  agony,  for  a  retreat  where 
Larry  was  not,  nor  likely  to  be. 

Talk  of  Bruce's  spider! — ^was  it  only  a  paltry  seven 
times  that  he  essayed  to  spin  his  web,  and  the  eighth 
time  succeeded?  I  had  no  respect  for  Bruce's 
spider. 

And  not  only  in  human  traffic  of  boys  and  masters, 


42  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

mind  you,  this  tormenting  pursuit  in  whichever  direc- 
tion I  ran,  and  the  kick,  kick,  at  my  heels,  but  if 
I  became  keen  on  any  abstraction,  science,  or  a  period 
of  history,  there,  just  behind  me,  alongside,  in  front 
of  me,  was  Larry.  If  I  excelled  in  some  special  form 
of  sport  .  .  .  Larry  again,  emulating,  outrivalling 
me;  for  the  mere  fact  that  he  was  also  there,  dulled 
my  enthusiam,  and  I  dropped  away.  Larry! 
Larry!  leave  me  alone — I  want  my  pals  alone 
— I  want  to  walk  without  meeting  you  in  my  favourite 
thickness  of  the  larch  wood  aslant  on  the  hill — I  want 
to  hear  the  cry:  "Somers  is  an  Al  bowler  on  a  jfast 
wicket,"  without  the  addition:  "Rather — and  so  is 
Munro!"  Once  we  were  actually  bracketed  second 
in  an  examination  in  which  we  had  both  striven 
keenly  for  a  top  place ;  physical  geography,  I  think  it 
was. 

Holidays  were  a  respite;  for  then  I  could  abandon 
myself  to  the  absolute  ease  of  Larry's  society,  without 
perpetual  misgiving  that  I  ought  to  be  building  new 
fortresses  against  the  inevitable  future,  or  walking 
round  the  established  ones  to  make  sure  of  the  encir- 
cling spikes,  or  in  sick  irritation  watching  Larry  in 
other  company,  being  charming,  being  himself. 

Certainly,  in  the  holidays,  home  and  Felicity  came 
into  being.  But  the  bond  between  Larry  and  my 
mother  seemed  to  slacken  during  his  lithe  race 
through  the  schoolboy  years,  fourteen,  fifteen,  sixteen. 
He  evaded  caresses,  not  awkwardly,  but  mind  and 


THE    SHRINE  43 

body  in  its  amazed  awakening  twisted  shyly  away 
from  touch  or  question. 

"Besides,  you  know,  Kev,  Felicity  is  such  a  deliri- 
ous duffer  about  Runchester.  The  mater  has  twice 
her  sense." 

Well,  it  was  true  enough  that  Felicity's  conception 
of  a  boy's  public  school  was  gloriously  out  of  focus; 
but  immediately  I  asked  Larry  if  he  considered  him- 
self any  more  at  ease  in  "Igg-liff,"  as  we  always 
called  Felicity's  social  entertainments.  This,  as  it 
happens,  was  nasty,  for  Larry,  at  a  recent  dinner 
party,  had  made  quite  a  conspicuous  ass  of  himself — 
something  to  do  with  the  proper  sequence  of  drinks; 
and  his  partner  had  been  heard  informing  Felicity 
that  he  was  too  deliciously  infantile  for  words, 
and  the  memory  of  it  all  was  still  a  hot  blush  to  Larry. 

It  was  not  likely  I  would  allow  any  one,  not  Larry 
nor  any  one  else,  to  laugh  at  Felicity;  just  because  I 
could  myself  chuckle  inwardly  at  her  delirious  duff- 
erisms,  nevertheless  she  must  not  be  exposed, 
defenceless  and  unaware,  to  alien  laughter.  So  I 
went  about  with  fists  doubled  and  tongue  edged. 

Those  holidays  were  best  when  Larry  and  I,  touring 
on  bicycle  or  on  foot,  were  dependent  on  one  another 
without  outside  distraction;  and  could  map  out  our 
separate  careers  in  that  semi-burlesqued,  semi-im- 
personal fashion  which  we  imagined  hid  a  genuine 
concern  .  .  .  off-hand  shyness  that  every  day's 
twilight  and  dusk  merged  again  to  a  bolder  intimacy. 
But  I  withheld  from  Larry  down  what  stream  I  had 


44  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

already  swung  my  dream-argosies.  He  might — ^he 
would — choose  the  same  for  himself.  ...  I  pre- 
tended I  was  for  engineering;  bridge-building;  rail- 
building.  And  all  the  while  saw  myself  at  grey  old 
Oxford,  and  then  with  chambers  in  one  of  the  grey  old 
Inns  of  Court — I  was  ambitious  for  the  Bar. 

"I'm  going  to  be  an  engineer,  too,"  shouted  Larry 
enthusiastically. 

I  knew  it!  and  was  glad  of  my  deception;  though 
ashamed  to  the  depths  of  my  soul  of  the  obsession 
which  festered  to  plots  and  secrets  and  laborious  cir- 
cumventions. Perhaps  by  next  term  hatred  would 
have  vanished. 

And  the  next  term  I  watched  the  symptoms  recur 
like  a  chronic  sickness.  And  the  term  after,  they 
would  be  worse  than  ever. 

At  all  events,  he  was  leaving  Runchester  at  eight- 
een, two  years  before  I  did.  I  looked  forward 
eagerly  to  that  period  clear  of  him. 

At  seventeen,  when  other  boys  blunder  through  the 
hideous  hobbledehoy  stage,  Larry  lit  up  to  quite 
amazing  beauty — that  elusive  tiptoe  gift  which  among 
maidens  is  known  as  beaute  du  diable;  precious 
because  indefinable,  because  at  any  moment  it  may 
wing  away;  because  it  tugs  the  tears  to  the  eyes,  and 
rouses  an  unquiet  desperate  wish  to  clutch  at  it  and  do 
something  with  it,  quickly.  .  .  . 

Unlike  Larry,  I  never  was  dowered  with  evanescent 
fascination.  Perhaps  that  sort  of  miracle  cannot 
happen  on  features  already  surpassingly  excellent. 


THE   SHRINE  45 

At  all  events,  I  had  the  consolation  of  knowing  that  I 
would  make  a  handsome  corpse,  whereas  there  was  no 
hope  at  all  for  Larry  once  life  had  fled  from  him. 

At  seventeen,  also,  he  suddenly  shed  school  inter- 
ests; was  impatient  of  such  major  matters  as  the  tone 
of  Runchester  under  the  new  prefecture;  as  careless 
and  apathetic  here,  as  he  had  previously  been  keen, 
he  was  already  straining  out  to  possibilities  beyond 
Runchester. 

And  Prue,  alarmed,  started  to  invite  nice  flappers 
to  play  tennis.  "You  don't  mind  if  we  use  your 
court,  do  you,  Felicity?  But  ours  is  so  cramped  at 
the  wall  end  where  Wentworth  plants  his  nasturtiums, 
and  he  does  get  so  annoyed  to  have  them  trampled  on ; 
though  I  tell  him  it's  what  he  must  expect  now,  with 
young  people  about." 

Prue  applied  nice  flappers  as  a  first-aid  remedy  to 
her  shadowy  alarms  about  Larry,  without  in  the  least 
bringing  forward  these  shadows  for  clearer  inspection. 
Influenced  still  by  Quaker  prohibitions  on  what  they 
deemed  sinful,  she  was  as  afraid  for  Larry  the  second 
in  his  adolescent  phase,  as  she  had  been  and  still  was 
afraid  of  her  undying  passion  for  Larry  the  first. 
Was  she  at  all  aware  of  the  startling  likeness  which 
had  sprung  now  into  visibility,  between  the  two  of  the 
dynasty?  But  even  if  she  saw  it,  Prue  was  tcyo 
normally  cheerful  to  fret  over  such  a  superficial 
danger — "He's  a  good  boy  enough!"  Prue  had  been 
very  much  better  informed  than  Felicity  over  Run- 
chester code,  and  thus  she  had  stood  high  with  Larry 


46  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

during  his  three  or  four  years  of — ^neuter  gender. 
She  did  not  notice  when  it  began  to  matter  less  to  him 
that  Felicity  was  unbalanced  in  her  cricketing  infor- 
mation; or  how  often  he  sauntered  restlessly  down 
the  garden  and  through  the  gate  in  the  wall.  Next 
door  was  the  right  sort  of  luxuriant  softness;  inter- 
esting, gracious  people  to  be  met,  celebrities,  some  of 
them;  flowers  in  profusion;  and  colour  strikingly 
massed  or  artfully  subdued ;  and  wine  and  good  cook- 
ing; and  Felicity's  voice  singing  queer  little  song- 
snatches  that  thrilled  by  their  incomprehensibility; 
and  talk  that  dared  and  amused  by  a  certain 
suppleness  at  its  moral  joints.  Next  door,  in  fact, 
Larry  existed  in  surroundings  originally  supplied  by 
Gilbert  Somers — including  caste. 

Prue  was  wise  in  her  statement  that  the  genus  boy 
(from  twelve  to  sixteen)  abhors  carpets.  Prue  was 
foolish  to  forget  that  Larry  was  seventeen.  His 
mother  was  no  good  to  him  at  this  juncture,  but  it 
did  not  matter,  because  he  was  able  to  confide  in 
Felicity  again;  the  barrier  of  the  Runchester  years 
was  broken.  They  were  once  more  as  they  had  been 
when  Larry  was  an  urchin.  I  was  forced  back 
to  remember  again  and  again  how  adorable  she  could 
be  with  a  child  she  loved  .  .  .  and  presently  re-ac- 
customed myself  to  the  pain  of  finding  them  in  the 
studio,  his  head  vivid  against  her  knee,  her  fingers 
rumpling  through  his  hair;  bright  flushed  cheeks; 
tender  inflexion  in  her  voice  as  she  called  him  by  the 
absurd  nonsense  names  invented  long  ago:  "Larri- 


THE   SHRINE  47 

kin"  and  "Humpty."  It  was  as  though  he  had  re- 
turned from  a  long  journey  abroad. 

One  evening  I  walked  into  the  studio,  and  found 
the  picture  just  as  usual  .  .  .  and  knew  that  for  them 
it  was  different,  eternally  and  miraculously  different, 
.  .  .  and  that  there  was  no  further  need  for  me  to 
remind  myself  fiercely:  "I'm  her  own  son,  and  he 
isn't!"  Larry  was  putting  up  no  more  competition 
as  Felicity's  son. 

I  cannot  tell  why  the  certainty  that  they  were 
imminent  lovers  smote  me  on  that  one  entrance  out 
of  the  thousand  times  that  I  had  seen  them  in  contact 
as  close  and  as  happy.  Larry  was  not  conscious  yet 
of  the  difference — ^nor,  I  believe,  was  Felicity;  but  I 
cannot  be  sure. 

It  seemed  ages  and  a&ons  that  I  stood  about  and 
waited  helplessly  for  their  realization ;  and  went  back 
with  Larry  to  Runchester;  and  returned  home;  and 
stood  about  and  waited,  I  alone  at  one  end  of 
the  world,  and  they  at  the  other;  and  somewhere 
in  space  Prue's  active,  merry  little  person  hoping 
that  her  son  was  "all  right,"  and  would  one  day  make 
a  good  husband  and  father;  "but,  dear  me,  plenty  of 
time  for  that!"  .  .  . 

Ages  and  aeons — not  quite  a  year,  actually.  The 
Christmas  after  Larry  had  left  Runchester  Felicity 
was  swung  up  on  a  surge  of  creative  power;  exhibited 
two  or  three  exquisite  pieces  of  statuary  at  the 
Nouveau  Siecle  Galleries;  and,  hectic  and  excited  by 
the  kudos  she  received,  insisted  on  modelling  Larry's 


48  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

head  and  shoulders — "Not  you,  Kevin;  you're  too 
obvious.  You  shall  be  my  model  when  I'm  reduced 
to  doing  pot-boilers!" 

And  in  those  hours  she  spent  studying  his  lines 
and  moulding  the  set  of  his  head,  pursuing  the  secret 
of  his  intangible  boyish  sweetness,  mobile  mischief  of 
his  mouth,  and  fleeting  desire  in  his  eyes,  she  must 
have  started  more  than  once  at  the  subtly  unfolding 
likeness  to  the  first  and  only  man  she  had  loved. 

Her  torment  of  frustration  was  lulled,  and  longing 
passed  magically  away  from  her  body  and  her  soul; 
her  abstracted  brain  was  steadied  and  at  peace;  and 
her  soul  was  like  an  opal,  the  blurred  greys  and 
mauves  and  blues  shifting,  clouding,  parting  to  show 
the  light  bright  fire  shut  in.  Felicity  was  a  girl 
again — ^Larry  Munro  had  come  back. 

And  for  me  the  waiting  was  over. 

And  from  Prue? — bitter  reproaches? — a  mother's 
curse? — a  widow's  hard  resentment  for  her  husband 
superseded  and  forgotten?  Why,  no,  none  of  this 
fantastic  rubbish.  Prue  quite  simply  did  not  know. 
She  confided  in  me  how  thankful  she  was  that  my 
mother  seemed  to  be  "settling  down  more." 

"Felicity,  will  you  send  me  to  school  abroad  some- 
where?" 

"Yes,  dear.  Do  you  want  to  learn  the  language? 
Are  you  sick  of  Runchester  already?" 

"I  can't  stand  it  any  more." 

And  for  once  she  was  attentive  to  the  harshness  in 
my  voice,  and  knew  that  "it"  did  not  refer  to  Run- 


THE    SHRINE  49 

Chester.  A  pause,  during  which  a  question  hovered 
on  the  air.  .  .  .     Then — 

"Well,  Kevin,"  kindly,  "make  what  arrangements 
you  like." 

"I  want  to  be  sent!"  impatient  of  my  futile  inde- 
pendence. And  I  added:  "Don't  let  me  come  home 
for  the  holidays  for  a  year  or  two.  Then  I'll  be 
ready  for  Oxford." 

"Larry  is  going  to  Oxford;  he's  in  the  seventh 
heaven." 

For  the  first  and  only  time  I  was  guilty  of  melo- 
drama. 

"Larry  can  go  to  the  seventli  hell — for  all  I  care!" 

But  at  all  events  there  was  no  more  for  me 
to  suffer  now.  Larry  Munro  had  robbed  me  twice 
over  of  what  God  had  never  once  given  me.  So  what 
else  could  he  do? 

"What  shall  I  say  to  Prue  when  she  asks  why 
you've  left  your  school?"  Felicity  could  not  be 
broken  in  one  hour  of  the  habit  of  turning  Vo  me  for 
counsel. 

"Oh,  tell  her  that  foreign  travel  widens  the  mind. 
Tell  her  that  my  father  mentioned  in  his  will  I  was  to 
be  educated  in  France.  Tell  her  I  was  discovered 
hanging  on  to  a  sheet  out  of  my  dormitory  window 
with  a  ginger-beer  bottle  between  my  toes,  and  they 
requested  you  to  remove  me." 

I  had  forgotten  that  Felicity  was  only  a  semi- 
listener.  Her  subsequent  version  persisted  that  I  had 
confessed  to  be  in  a  scrape  at  Runchester,  and  was 


50  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

begging  her  to  take  me  away  before  I  was  discovered 
hanging  myself  from  the  dormitory  window. 

I  went  eventually  to  a  college  at  Lausanne.  And 
discovered  winter  sport  to  be  an  excellent  soporific, 
leaving  little  space  in  which  to  brood  ...  on  the 
sudden  opening  of  a  studio  door — two  figures,  a  boy 
and  a  woman,  in  the  far  dusky  alcove  .  .  .  woman's 
head  bent  and  boy's  head  bent  back.  .  .  . 

"Gare!  Care!!  Gare!!!" — a  crowded  sleigh 
whizzed  past  our  hungry  procession  a-tramp 
down  the  mountains  from  Chateau  d'Oex.  Jolly  good 
days  in  the  crunching  weather.  It  was  almost 
all  right.     I  had  almost  forgotten.  .  .  . 

[9] 

I  was  two  years  at  Lausanne,  three  at  Oxford. 
Larry  had  thought  better  of  the  university  project, 
and  allowed  me  this  period  unmolested — I  felt  it  to  be 
in  the  nature  of  a  sub-let.  He  was  meanwhile  but- 
ting his  way  through  the  workshops  of  a  first-class 
engineering  firm  in  the  Midlands;  in  due  time  he 
returned  to  London,  professionally  involved  in  new 
schemes  for  the  extension  of  tube  railways.  I  hardly 
dared  believe  yet  that  it  would  be  safe  for  me  to  make 
open  statement  in  his  presence  that  I  intended  reading 
for  the  Bar,  without  tempting  his  swift  emulation. 
But  had  some  hitch  occurred  in  the  mechanism  I  had 
long  ago  accepted?     Or  had  the  poignant  crisis  of 


THE   SHRINE  51 

five  years  back  been  also  my  liberation?  For  Larry 
merely  said,  "Going  to  take  silk,  are  you,  old  man? 
May  heaven  in  its  mercy  visit  the  Bench  with  deaf- 
ness!" 

I  settled  down  in  chambers  off  Middle  Inn 
Gardens.  Felicity  made  no  comment  on  my 
determination  not  to  live  at  home.  But  Prue  took 
the  unexpected  view  that  I  dwelt  apart  because  I  in- 
tended to  lead  a  fast  life;  and  quite  comically  dis- 
approved of  me;  remonstrating  with  Felicity  for  per- 
mitting such  callous  independence:  "Bless  me,  boys 
have  got  to  sow  their  wild  oats,  and  I  don't  ask  Larry 
questions;  but  a  decent  home  in  the  background  and 
his  mother  to  count  his  washing,  make  no  end  of  a 
difference  in  the  long  run.  Felicity,  my  dear!" 

I  laughed  when  Felicity  reported  this  speech.  And 
her  gay,  ironic  eyes  smiled  back  at  me  ...  we  were 
good  enough  friends  for  that;  though  we  still  did  not 
refer  to  my  reasons  for  not  emulating  Larry's  shirking 
example  held  up  to  me.  Breeding  is  a  disadvantage 
sometimes,  when  vituperation  might  so  effectively 
clear  the  air. 

"Give  Prue  my  love,  and  ask  her  to  come  to  tea 
with  me — and  I  promise  to  clear  away  all  the  lurid 
photographs  from  my  mantelpiece!" 

"I  suppose  she  supposes  it  must  be  chorus-girls — 
and  brokers,"  Felicity  surmised.  Then — "She's 
rather  a  dear  .  .  ."a  hint  of  remorse  in  the  acknowl- 
edgment.    "But  I  do  wonder — "     She  fell  silent, 


52  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

musing.  And,  silent  also,  I  was  able  to  add  my 
wonder  to  hers,  by  what  seductions  Prue  could  have 
drawn  Larry  the  first  for  mate. 

"Can  you  see  her  as  a  girl,  Kevin?" 

"Oh  yes,  easily.  Mid-Victorian.  Not  the  demure, 
swooning  type,  but  lively,  arch  and  amiable — with  the 
sort  of  sleeves  and  ringlets  that  go  with  it.  'She 
rallied  him  in  a  sprightly  tone  ' — that  was  Prue." 

"She's  very  grey  now,"  still  with  tenderness  and 
remorse  blended — and  a  hint  of  fear.  "And  when 
she  buys  a  new  hat,  she  wears  it  back  to  front,  to 
disguise  that  she  was  ever  married  to  an  actor.  I  do 
love  her  for  that!  She's  been  good  to  me,  Kevin 
..."  her  voice  pleaded  an  excuse,  lifted  to  a 
question  unspoken:     "Need  I  ever  tell  her?" 

"It's  beyond  her  range  of  guessing,"  I  answered 
elliptically,  standing  at  the  leaded  window  with  my 
back  to  the  room.  And — "Ask  her  to  come  next 
Saturday;  when  she  can  be  practical  about  furniture 
and  draughts  to  her  heart's  content." 

Prue  duly  arrived,  in  the  new  hat  still  back  to 
front,  albeit  jauntily  put  on,  in  honour  of  this  rather 
immoral  visit  to  an  immoral  bachelor's  immoral 
apartments.  She  discovered  immediately  that  my 
bed  was  aslant  between  door  and  window,  and  snapped 
my  head  off  when  I  suggested  that  there  was  no  other 
place  for  it. 

"Bless  the  boy!     What's  wrong  with  here?" 

Nothing  at  all.  "Here"  was  where  it  had  stood 
originally — only  I  had  moved  it  to  give  Prue  the 


THE   SHRINE  53 

pleasure  of  putting  it  back.  She  dusted  my  books  too, 
and  tweaked  my  desk  into  a  convenient  place  for  the 
light;  and  made  inquires  about  the  porter  and  char- 
woman and  window-cleaner;  and  did  I  know  how 
to  manage  a  geyser  by  myself?  and  the  grates  were  a 
disgrace;  and — "This  cupboard's  locked,  KeVin," 
shaking  at  the  door;  "just  like  their  impertinence! 
See  that  you  get  the  key,  and  have  it  cleared  out." 

"It  has  a  key — I  mean — I  knew  it  was  locked  .  .  . 
there's  nothing  in  it,"  I  stammered  culpably.  And 
Prue  pursed  up  her  lips — and  chattered  quickly  and 
libellously  about  washerwomen. 

There  was  no  harm  in  encouraging  Prue's 
pleasantly  thrilled  convictions  that  the  secret  of  my 
mysterious  follies  lay  all  that  afternoon  within  a  few 
feet  of  her,  in  the  locked  cupboard;  she  was  not  fond 
enough  of  me  to  be  grieved  by  the  idea. 

"Why  Felicity  doesn't  lecture  you,  instead  of  gad- 
ding about!  She's  your  mother.  And  you're  no 
more  fit  to  look  after  yourself " 

"Than  she  is." 

Prue  stirred  her  tea  vigorously,  scrutinized  me 
from  under  the  uncompromising  back  brim  of  her 
hat,  and  jerked  her  chair  an  inch  or  two  nearer 
mine. 

"You  haven't  been  much  at  home  these  last  years, 
Kevin,  or  I  might  have  spoken  my  mind  to  you  sooner 
— about  Felicity." 

"Well?"     Instantly  I   sprang  sentinel. 

"That  cottage  of  hers  in  Kent " 


54  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

Felicity  had  bought  Thyme  Croft  about  two  or  three 
years  ago.  The  delicacy  which  prompted  the  pur- 
chase was  natural — her  own  house  was  next  door  to 
Prue's.  .  .  . 

"She  has  never  once  invited  me  down  there,"  the 
latter  blurted  out. 

"Nor  me." 

Prue's  hurt  little  face  brightened.  "How  odd 
of  Felicity!"  She  was  relieved  at  not  being  singled 
out  for  special  exclusion,  but  still  worried  over 
Felicity's  motives. 

"She  probably  thinks  you  wouldn't  care  to  leave 
Wentworth,"  I  blundered. 

"My  dear  lad,  I  shouldn't;  but  Wentworth  and 
Felicity  get  on  capitally ;  and  he'd  have  been  only  too 
delighted  to  come  along  and  give  her  any  sort  of  help 
in  the  management  of  her  plants:  I  suppose  she  has 
plants  down  there?" 

— And  other  things,  the  management  of  whom 
needed  no  help  from  Wentworth.  Wentworth  .  .  . 
I  smiled  at  the  notion  of  Larry's  idyll  Under  Royal 
Patronage. 

"No  doubt  I'm  wrong  in  speaking  to  you  like  this, 
Kevin,  as  you're  her  son;  but  do  you  think  Felicity 
is — being  foolish  at  all?" 

I  negatived  with  brief  haughtiness;  sorry  for  the 
blatant  lie — but  loyalty  cannot  be  bent  in  two  direc- 
tions. "She's  admired,  naturally;  I  should  be  the 
last  to  grumble  at  her  social  influence,  string-pulling 
by  charm — all  that ;  it's  not  a  bad  start  for  me  to  be 


THE   SHRINE  55 

devilling  for  Sir  Harry  Eyre.  But  entertaining  so 
much  in  London,  and  being  entertained,  I  expect  she 
feels  an  after-the-season  reaction,  and  the  need  of 
complete  solitude." 

Prue  cheered  up.  "Dear  me,  yes,  I  know  what 
it  means  myself;  rushing  about,  and  one's  friends 
popping  in  and  out,  and  the  Sewing  Club  always  at 
sixes  and  sevens,  and  my  At  Home  day " 

Bless  her  innocent  conceit,  which  saw  in  her  own 
trotting,  unselfish  obscure  existence  "with  one's 
friends  popping  in  and  out,"  the  equivalent  of  Feli- 
city's gracious  spacious  career  as  a  Society  Para- 
graph. But  my  joy  in  Prue  was  touched  to  irritation 
when  she  went  on  to  say : 

"It  would  do  her  good  to  remember,  all  the  same, 
and  I've  told  her  often  enough,  that  we're  no  chickens, 
she  and  I;  and  can't  gallivant  as  we  used  to,  without 
knocking  ourselves  up." 

Her  fuzzy  grey  hair  and  humorous  eyes  netted  in 
tiny  wrinkles,  bore  witness  to  it.  And  no  wonder 
Felicity  was  galled,  to  be  dragged  along  in  Prue's 
thoughts,  a  contemporary  as  a  matter  of  course.  But 
to  Prue,  over  fifty.  Felicity,  twelve  years  younger, 
figured  only  as  the  other  woman  whom  Larry  Munro 
had  loved  and  would  have  married. 

"You  know  I  care  a  great  deal  about  your  mother, 
Kevin,  and  I'd  hate  her  to  be  laid  up  this  winter; 
but  she  worCt  wear  wool  next  to  her  skin." 

"She  told  me  once  that  it  was  worth  while  being 
ill,  having  you  to  nurse  her." 


56  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

And  Prue  was  soothed  and  gratified  by  the  tribute, 
which,  though  diplomatic,  was  also  genuine.  "Oh, 
nonsense,  I  only  run  in  and  rub  her  chest,  as  any 
neighbour  would!" 

"You'll  come  in  and  rub  mine  if  I'm  ill,  won't  you, 
Prue?  I  don't  want  to  be  left  to  the  thronging 
neighbours." 

Prue's  eyes  were  drawn  irresistibly  to  the  cupboard. 
"You've  got — your  mother." 

"Not  in  there." 

"Though  she's  hopeless  in  a  sick-room,  the  poor 
darling.  Do  you  remember  that  week  after  Miss 
Adams  had  left,  when  she  gave  you  castor  oil  three 
times  a  day  instead  of  cod-liver  oil?" 

We  laughed  in  chorus  over  this  one  of  Felicity's 
rare  displays  of  maternal  determination. 

"That  I  lived  through  it,  proves  I  was  intended  to 
be  a  great  man." 

"Oh,  you're  just  ordinary,"  she  chaffed  me. 

"And  Larry,  is  he  just  ordinary  too?" 

She  sighed.  "He's  so  plain  lately,  Kevin — ^when 
did  you  last  see  him?  We  thought  at  one  time  he 
wasn't  bad-looking;  but  now — "  her  eyes  shone  with 
pride  in  her  son,  even  while  her  voice  tapped  him  in 
depreciation,  "not  that  it  matters  for  a  man.  And 
he's  doing  well  at  his  job ;  nothing  out  of  the  way,  of 


course 


It's  all  right,  my  dear;  I'm  not  Larry,  and  it 
won't  unduly  puff  me  up  if  you  tell  me  to  my  face 
how  wonderful  he  is." 


THE   SHRINE  57 

After  that  she  stayed  another  hour  and  a  half, 
boring  me.  .  .  . 

"For  such  an  old-fashioned  mite  as  you  used  to  be, 
Kevin,"  on  parting,  "I  must  say  you've  grown  a  fine 
big  fellow,"  her  eyes  ruminated  on  my  length 
and  breadth  for  a  moment — ^and  I  waited  for  the 
long-delayed  piece  of  sentiment  or  impulse  of  nearer 
confidence.     At  last — 

"I  believe  you  could  manage  my  piano  between 
you,  you  and  Larry;  it  does  bring  such  a  lot  of  dirt 
and  bother  to  have  a  man  in  for  the  job,  and  they  do 
charge  you  such  a  lot  nowadays;  and  grumble  if  they 
don't  get  their  glass  of  beer.  And  the  language! 
And  then  you  have  to  thank  them  on  your  bended 
knees  for  ruining  the  stair-carpet.  Wentworth 
doesn't  like  a  piano  in  the  dining-room,  suddenly, 
after  all  these  years,  and  wants  it  moved  on  to  the  first 
floor.     If  Oxford  hasn't  made  you  too  proud " 

I  kissed  her  puckered  forehead,  and  reassured  her 
that  Oxford  had  taught  me  nothing  but  the  profound- 
est  humility — and  that  the  piano  should  be  moved 
forthwith. 


[10] 

Larry  and  I  did  not  meet  frequently  within  the 
next  two  years;  he  was  engrossed  in  his  work,  and  I 
in  mine;  and  when  we  took  recreation — ^well,  I  made 
it  my  care  that  it  should  be  on  different  recreation 
grounds.     Thanks  to  Lausanne  and  Oxford  and  the 


58  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

Bar,  this  was  apparently  easy;  my  circle  no  longer 
intersected  Larry's.  And  though  I  could  not  relax 
from  the  habit  of  spiking  my  fortresses,  as  of  old,  yet 
it  really  seemed  as  though  my  destiny,  subservient  to 
Larry-idolatry,  had  been  spun  free  at  last.  Never- 
theless, I  vowed  he  should  not  know  my  friends,  nor 
the  friends  of  my  friends;  the  familiar  kick  at 
my  heels  and  jolt  at  my  elbows  might  still  urge  me  to 
a  very  frenzy  for  escape.  So  I  guarded  myself  from 
intimacy  with  any  of  those  luminaries  of  politics, 
diplomacy  and  art — Igg-liff ,  in  fact,  to  use  our  school- 
boy joke — whom  I  used  to  meet  at  Felicity's  salon. 
It  must  be  dubbed  a  salon;  drawing-room  conveys  the 
wrong  idea,  over-emphasizes  the  diamond-and-low- 
neck  aspect.  Felicity's  career  as  a  hostess  was  of  the 
kind  which  one  day  would  form  itself  into  the  ideal 
volume  of  light  biography:  "Mrs.  Somers  and  her 
Times,  255.  net."  It  held  just  the  mellow  unreality 
of  an  illustration  filmed  in  tissue-paper,  of  such  a 
book;  Felicity  had  retained  from  the  training  of  the 
Somers,  an  aversion  from  the  hoyden  manners  and 
violent  revolts  of  young  twentieth-century;  and  they 
were  never  permitted  to  intrude. 

I  imagined  Larry  to  be  a  favourite  among  Felicity's 
friends ;  but  I  had  not  the  right  to  question  him,  while 
I  strictly  kept  concealed  from  him  what  were  my 
own  intimate  spheres.  And  he  showed  no  curiosity; 
we  might  both  have  been  conforming  to  the 
silent  rules  of  an  understood  game — accidental  on 
Larry's  part,  of  course;  he  simply  was  not  interested. 


THE    SHRINE  59 

And  gradually  my  precautions  slackened  from  mis- 
trustful tension ;  I  ceased  from  teasing  my  brain  with 
far-fetched  possibilities  of  Larry  breaking  into  this 
fortress  or  that,  by  means  of  chance  encounter,  chance 
introduction:  the  friend  whose  relation-by-marriage 
just  happens  to  bring  a  fellow  along  to  a  studio  rag 
one  evening,  who  had  an  after-appointment  with 
young  Munro  who  called  in  to  fetch  him.  .  .  . 

Drivelling — yes!  but  often  enough  in  the  earlier 
stages  of  my  panic,  I  had  narrowly,  by  lie  and  by 
strategy,  circumvented  such  catastrophe:  Larry  in  my 
rooms,  and  the  stray  man  who  dropped  in — it  was  our 
schoolboyhood  all  over  again — breathless  watching, 
while  Larry  all  unconsciously  walked  into  popularity. 
Had  he  not  been  so  unconscious,  had  he  only  been 
aware  of  my  existent  state  of  mind,  sharing  it  even,  I 
could  have  said  to  him  boldly:  "No — don't  stop  on 
for  another  drink,  at  any  moment  Randolph  and 
Payne  and  Willy  Carter  may  arrive,  and  I  can't  turn 
them  away,  and  they  may  like  you,  and  invite  you  to 
call;  and  at  the  Paynes'  you  will  inevitably  meet  the 
Setons  and  Rex  Warrington-Crewe,  and  Leonora 
Bamet — and  there  you  are  .  .  .  where  I  don't  want 
you  to  be!" 

But  Larry  would  have  thought  me  mad.  I  had  to 
fake  an  engagement  elsewhere,  march  him  out  of  the 
house,  use  a  public  telephone  to  'phone  home  to  whom- 
ever might  have  arrived — by  invitation  or  by  accident 
— that  I  was  detained  and  would  return  presently: 
then  rid  myself  of  Larry  in  the  vicinity  of  my  pre- 


60  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

tended  destination,  eluding  his  frank  and  exaspera- 
ting desire  to  accompany  me,  .  .  .  and  double  back 
to  Middle  Inn  Gardens! 

It  would  have  been  less  tortuous  and  more  dignified, 
more  decent,  even,  to  have  knifed  affection  ruthlessly ; 
and  on  some  pretext  of  quarrel,  have  parted  with  him 
for  good.  But — life  without  Larry?  .  .  .  My 
twin  bogey  of  love  and  hate  stalked  me  grimly,  and 
gave  me  no  rest,  that  first  year  I  settled  down  in  Lon- 
don. The  second  year,  as  I  have  said  before,  fear  be- 
gan to  dwindle.  I  had  averted  all  looming  contingen- 
cies, and  now  they  recurred  less  frequently.  Larry 
himself  was  moody  and  depressed  whenever  I  saw  him 
— and  it  was  only  the  conquering  irresistible  Larry 
who  twanged  the  nerve  of  my  obsession.  What  was 
the  matter  with  him,  and  whence  had  departed  the 
glory  of  early  day  that  had  hung  about  him  before  he 
was  twenty?  A  woman  might  have  wept  over  the 
change  in  Larry;  perhaps  two  women  did.  And  I — I 
wanted  to  do  something  for  him;  wanted  to  hear  the 
old  infectious  whistle,  which  in  the  past  had  caused 
me  to  hate  him  furiously ;  and  in  the  future,  I  knew, 
would  make  me  hate  him  no  less. 

But  this  was  not  the  sort  of  Larry  I  could  fight  with 
any  credit.     And  so  I  let  vigilance  sag. 

"Can  you  get  away  for  a  week's  tramp,  old  man?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "Eyre  will  want  me  for  the 
Crown  V,  Durham,  Ltd.,  case  till  the  end  of  the  month, 
anyway.    I  could  clear  off  in  May;  in  fact,  I  was 


THE   SHRINE  61 

was  going  down  to  Porthgollan,  but  I'd  rather  put  in 
the  time  with  you." 

"Who's  at  Porthgollan?" 

"Kate  Seton  has  a  cottage  there.  Calls  it  The  Shoe 
— always  has  so  many  people  in  it  she  doesn't  know 
what  to  do  sort  of  idea.  She's  a  novelist,  and  bound 
over  by  the  public  to  be  strictly  original." 

Idly  Larry  strolled  over  to  my  book-shelves.  "K. 
B.  Seton — is  that  the  woman?  Is  her  stuff  any 
good?" 

"Borrow  a  couple,  if  you  like,  and  find  out  for 
yourself.  She  gave  me  that^' — indicating  a  recent 
acquisition. 

"My  lamb!"  Larry  apostrophized  the  buU-pup 
affectionately;  a  low,  vindictive  growl  was  the 
response.  "My  fairy!  Doesn't  answer  to  either 
of  these  titles.  Hi!  Baskerville!" — and  a  red 
snap  from  eyes  deep-set  in  festoons  of  loose  baggy 
flesh. 

"He's  annoyed  at  being  called  out  of  his  name, 
that's  all.     Potter!" 

Potter's  one  enormous  fang,  worn  decoratively  out- 
side his  face,  ceased  to  be  threatening.  Almost,  he 
smiled  on  his  master. 

"Little  Playmates!"  remarked  Larry  rudely,  for 
he  was  accustomed  to  the  worship  of  dogs.  "Potter 
is  very  much  in  this  picture,  Kev:  the  Lonely  Little 
Boy,  and:  'At  least,  dear  old  doggie,  you  love  me, 
don't  you?  '  And  you've  both  got  the  same  pleading, 
melting,  liquid,  brown  eyes." 


62  THECHINASHOP 

"Like  butterscotch  in  its  different  stages  of  manu- 
facture— yes.  Potter  isn't  at  all  the  sort  of  footling 
character  you  describe;  when  he  and  I  feel  misan- 
thropic, we  sit  and  growl  at  one  another.  But  look 
here,  Larry,  I'm  not  a  bit  keen  on  Porthgollan — will 
you  be  able  to  manage  the  second  week  in  May  for  a 
tramp?" 

"Dunno;  I'll  try;"  his  brief  spell  of  enthu- 
siasm for  the  projected  holiday  had  already  subsided 
to  apathy. 

Had  Felicity  done  this  to  him?  Was  his  dejection 
the  result  of  her  favour  withdrawn?  Felicity  was 
radiantly  capricious,  I  knew  .  .  .  but  never  yet  to 
Larry  Munro. 

A  subtle  aversion  turned  me  from  going  to  see  her, 
and  thus  solving  the  riddle.  Hitherto  I  had  believed 
Felicity  capable  of  one  passion,  translucent  and  fixed. 
That  its  object  had  died  and  been  re-embodied  was  no 
contradiction  to  her  loyalty.  But  if  now  she  had 
grown  sick  of  Larry.  .  .  . 

I  ought  to  have  been  glad  of  the  possibility — God ! 
I  had  hated  him  enough,  and  twice  over.  Nevertheless 
and  curiously,  I  could  probe  to  the  very  core  of  my 
wound,  and  find  there  a  speck  of  comfort  in  recogni- 
tion of  the  manifest  scheme  and  purpose  of  the  two 
women  absorbed  in  the  one  type  .  .  .  wife  and  wife 
— for  in  all  but  the  consummation.  Felicity  had  been 
wedded  to  Larry  the  first;  mother  and  lover  .  .  .  the 
rhythm  lilted  on — and  I,  the  outcast,  foredoomed. 
But  the  resentment  of  vision  could  never  be  bitter  as 


THE   SHRINE  63 

of  those  blindly  thwarted  and  pushed  out.  An  artist 
had  here  planned  perfection.  And  I,  as  an  artist  in 
appreciation,  was  appalled  at  the  thought  that  Fe- 
licity's disloyalty  was  bound  to  destroy  my  sense  of 
an  ordered  grouping — turn  my  isolation  into  sense- 
less, cruel  accident.  .  .  . 
So  I  did  not  go  to  her. 

[11] 

Through  the  dense  breath  of  the  Cafe  Royal — the 
long,  low  room  with  the  kiosk  of  foreign  newspapers 
on  the  threshold — I  caught  a  sudden  glimpse  of  Larry 
at  a  table  not  far  off.  He  was  pale,  and  his  eyes  glit- 
tered scornfully,  scorn  that  might  have  been 
directed  against  himself,  or  at  me,  or — who  was  with 
him? 

A  plump,  intervening  shoulder,  twisting  and  shrug- 
ging coyly  among  a  group  of  male  satellites,  entirely 
blocked  out  his  companion  from  my  range  of  vision. 
I,  too,  twisted  and  shrugged  in  opposition  till  I  could 
see  what  I  wanted.  Felicity?  No,  a  flapper;  a 
child  of  about  sixteen,  common  and  pretty ;  face 
smothered  lavishly  in  powder;  baby  lips  over-red  but 
parted  in  fresh  surprise  at  something  Larry  had  just 
bent  to  whisper  into  her  mop  of  dark  curls;  crimson 
satin  tammy;  beads  .  .  . 

Oh  Lord! 

She  nudged  him,  and  giggled  loudly — "You  are  a 
one!     Let's  get  a  move  on  now;   I  wouldn't  miss 


64  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

Beattie  and  Babs  for  worlds,  I  wouldn't;  and  their 
turn  is  billed  for  ten-fifteen." 

They  passed  our  table  on  their  way  out.  Larry 
nodded  to  me,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  jauntily  tilted. 

"Hurry  up,"  I  admonished  him,  "or  you'll  miss 
Beattie  and  Babs" — ^the  flapper  was  already  at  the 
door,  her  high  black  patent  boots  twinkling  from 
beneath  the  flare  and  toss  of  her  short  skirt. 

"I  wouldn't  for  worlds,'^  said  Larry,  very 
seriously;  and  followed  the  lure  of  the  boots. 

"That  was  Munro,  wasn't  it?"  asked  one  of  the 
men  at  my  table;  "son  of  the  notorious  Larry.  He's 
in  the  works  with  Blake  Fenton.  Awful  young  slacker, 
Fenton  says,  and  no  wonder,  considering  what  he  goes 
about  with.     I  didn't  know  you  knew  him,  Somers." 

"We  were  at  Runchester  together,"  I  replied 
evasively. 

I  sat  up  late  for  Larry  that  night,  oddly  positive  of 
his  appearance  in  my  rooms. 

"Give  me  a  drink,  Kev!" 

"Two,  if  you  like." 

"D'you  mean  that?  I  was  afraid  you'd  try  and 
influence  me  for  my  good,  after  the  look  you 
gave  me  to-night."  He  flung  himself  into  a  saddle- 
bag. 

"Your  mistake.  That  was  congratulation  and  best 
wishes." 

"Damn  your  sarcasm  .  .  .  Kev,  she  was  young, 
that's  all!" 


THE   SHRINE  65 

I  understood — that  this  was  a  knell. 

"What  about  Felicity?"  and  I  was  glad  now  that 
I  had  always  called  her  so;  that  there  was  no  need 
for  me  to  say;     "What  about  my  mother?" 

"Felicity — "  he  stared  before  him,  avoiding 
my  eyes.  "Well — she's  forty-one,  and  I'm  twenty- 
five." 

"Try  not  to  be  a  cad." 

A  knell  .  .  .  cracked  .  .  .  discordairt  .  .  .  my 
ears  were  still  full  of  the  sound. 

Larry  sprang  up;  stood  with  arms  outflung, 
gripping  at  the  table  behind  him. 

"Am  I  less  of  a  cad  if  I  lie  about  it?  I'm  going 
to  her  to-morrow — yes,  to-morrow  morning  ...  to 
tell  her.  It's  only  fair.  I  don't  want  to  be  furtive. 
Kevin,  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer! — No,  it  isn't  that 
kid — Heavens,  no!  Don't  care  if  I  never  see  her 
again;  that  was  only  a  rag!  It  isn't  any  one. 
It's  just  that  Felicity  has  worn  me  out  .  .  .  seven 
years  of  it  .  .  .  what  did  I  know,  when  I  was 
eighteen,  of  how  I  should  feel  at  twenty-five?  For 
those  seven  years — I  swear  it — she's  had  the  best  of 
me,  unshared;  but  I  want — oh,  I  don't  know 
what  I  want!"  with  a  plunge  back  into  despondency. 
"But  I'm  going  to  Felicity  to-morrow." 

Well  .  .  .  his  desire  was  crudely  obvious  enough, 
symbolized  in  his  reaction  to  that  flapper.  He  wanted 
youth,  youth,  youth — the  sap  and  spring  of  it;  the 
pace  of  youth  alongside  of  his  own,  and  its  plangent. 


66  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

mooning  quality.  He  wanted  to  teach,  not  learn; 
to  be  masterful,  not  submissive;  to  be  shocked,  not 
finessed.  He  wanted  his  mate ....  I  could  not 
but  acknowledge  that  it  argued  a  passionate  sincerity 
in  him,  that  he  was  ready  to  renounce  Felicity  for  the 
mere  romantic  idea,  before  ever  it  materialized  into 
beloved  form. 

"So  you  propose  telling  her " 

"That  I  respect  and  honour  her  more  than  any- 
body else  I  know,  but " 

Larry  was  interrupted  by  my  uncontrollable  shout 
of  laughter.     I  could  not  help  myself. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Nothing.  Go  on.  That  you  respect  and  honour 
her  more  than  anybody  else  you  know,  but ?" 

"I  don't  see  what  you're  laughing  at,"  sulkily. 

"At  your  pretty,  chivalrous  reassurances,  that's  all. 
Confound  you,  Larry!  even  you  can't  seriously 
intend  to  insult  her  by  that  sort  of  tosh?" 

Larry  presented  to  me  a  blank  chubbiness: 
"There's  no  insult  and  no  tosh  in  telling  a  woman  that 
you  respect  her.  I  won't  have  her  imagine  that  I'm 
chucking  her  away  like  a  frayed  glove." 

"You're  not,  of  course." 

"I  was  mad  about  her  in  my  teens.  But  where's 
the  callow  young  ass  who  wouldn't  have  been?  Why, 
she  was  there,  waiting,  almost  before  I  was 
ready  to  have  any  one  waiting  for  me,  who  would 
have  expected  less;  so  where  was  my  chance?" 
incoherently. 


THE   SHRINE  67 

Heir,  unconsciously,  to  a  demand  created  by  the 
first  Larry  Munro — yes,  Felicity's  parched  exactions 
must  have  been  overwhelmingly  too  much  for  eight- 
een-and-a-half. 

"All  right,  all  right,"  I  granted  him.  "You've 
been  kidnapped,  ensnared,  sirened,  harpied  and  har- 
pooned, with  all  the  stock  seasoning.  Even  then, 
you  re  coming  out  sound  and  happy,  aren't  you?" 
"If  only  I  were,"  he  muttered.  "One  wrench — 
and  wholly  boy  again.  .  .  .  But  I've  left  a  bit  of  me 
hanging  like  a  rag  on  a  bramble-bush.  I'm  twenty- 
five,  Kevin;  and  if  I  don't  revolt  now — well,  I  never 
shall!  I  shall  grow — lazy.  D'you  think  my  com- 
mon clay  isn't  aware  that  Felicity  has  solved  a  com- 
mon-clay problem  for  me,  all  these  years? — Ah!" 
he  winced  backwards,  involuntarily;  then  his  gloom 
burst  into  a  puckish  grin:  "I  say,  remember  when 
we  were  kids  and  you  flew  at  me  once  like  a  young 
savage?" 

I  had  not  supposed  him  so  perceptive.  "Why 
mention  it  now?" 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  do  it  again,  a  second 
ago.     Kev,"  with  a  grave  simplicity  that  was  discon- 
certing, "I  do  so  want  a  girl  whom  I  can  bring  home 
to  the  mater — I've  felt  a  swine  towards  her." 
I  groaned  impatiently. 
"Hang  it — ^the  mater  does  exist." 
"Not  more  now  than  seven  years  ago." 
"I  don't  see  why  I'm  justifying  myself  to  you,"  he 
flared. 


68  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

"You're  not.     Far  from  it.     So  don't  worry." 

Larry  stormed  up  and  down  the  room  in  his  wrath! 
"Man — there's  wonder  for  me  at  the  end  of  the  world 
— would  you  have  me  miss  it?  .  .  .  A  sort  of 
promise — because  I'm  rather  wonderful  myself!" — 
He  jerked  back  his  head,  while  he  swung  and  flaunted, 
as  a  blade  from  its  sheath,  his  confidence  in  a  special 
grant  of  divinity.  Then,  ashamed  in  the  old, 
familiar  Larry-fashion,  began  absurdly  outboasting 
his  own  boast,  to  make  me  believe  its  reality  to  have 
been  meant  for  sheer,  vapid  nonsense. 

I  was  reminded  of  the  Greek  Peleus  who  had  held 
Thetis  in  his  hand — "though  she  changed  her  shape 
seven  times.  For  she  changed,  as  I  held  her,  into 
water,  and  to  vapour,  and  to  burning  flame,  and  to  a 
rock,  and  to  a  black-maned  lion,  and  to  a  tall  and 
stately  tree" — Larry,  in  the  past  half-hour,  had 
twisted  through  the  stages  of  ingenuous  schoolboy, 
man  of  the  world,  almost  a  brute,  entirely  a  fool,  a 
less  than  human  goblin,  a  more  than  human  god,  a 
braggart,  a  poet — I  had  never  remotely  suspected  this 
last  in  Larry;  but  surely  he  was  a  poet  who  lamented 
that  he  could  not  escape  from  enchanted  ground  with- 
out the  sacrifice  of  a  fragment  of  his  impetuous  youth 
— "left  hanging  like  a  rag  on  a  bramble-bush." 

"Felicity " 

I  became  attentive  again.  What  was  he  raving 
about,  dreaming  about,  now? 

"Felicity  is  unique;  a  thousand  times  too  good  for 
me — and  too  much  for  me.     When  I  gabble  rot,  she 


THE   SHRINE  69 

can  smile  that  absent,  mournful,  teasing  smile  of  hers, 
which  simply  shuts  me  up,  because  it  means  that  she's 
probed  so  much  deeper  than  I,  has  learnt  wisdom  and 
tolerance  years  and  years  ago,  loves  my  rash,  idiotic, 
infantile  judgments — and  it  shut  me  up  and  it  mad- 
dens me,  Kev,  for  the  girl  who'd  be  intolerant  and 
idiotic  with  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  girl! — ^you  know 
.  .  .  the  one  who  doesn't  exist — she'd  pick  up  sticks 
in  a  wood,  a  damp,  mushy  wood  with  most  of  the  red 
leaves  blown  down,  and  help  a  fellow  to  get  a 
fire  burning  under  a  gipsy  tripod." 

"So  would  a  Boy  Scout,"  I  snubbed  his  ardours. 

"And  Felicity  would  trail  about  among  the  tree- 
stems,  in  exquisitely  inappropriate  clothes,  scattering 
exquisitely  inappropriate  remarks — till  suddenly 
she'd  look  forlorn  as  a  star  reflected  in  a  puddle,  and 
ask  to  be  escorted  home.  The  girl  would  never 
want  to  go  home;  she'd  want  to  go  on!"  he  rang  out, 
triumphant  as  though  she  were  a  fact  instead  of 
ether. 

"I'm  sick  of  you.     Go  and  find  her,  then." 

"How  can  I?"  He  hauled  himself  slowly  to  his 
feet,  and  stood  with  bowed  shoulders,  a  maimed  look 
about  him,  as  of  a  man  who  has  just  remembered  he  is 
heavily  burdened.  "After  tomorrow  morning" — ^he 
shrugged. 

"Wait  till  the  evening,"  I  entreated  him  suddenly. 

"Why  on  earth — oh,  cut  the  cheap  sentiment,  Kev." 

Nightmare  by  early  day!  ...  By  night  one  was 
strung  up  to  expect  all  that  was  sinister  and  macabre; 


70  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

but  nightmare  by  day  gained  all  the  contrasting  horror 
of  normal  surroundings. 

"Good  night,  old  man,  and  thanks  for  being  a 
pillow  to  my  troubles;  I'll  perjure  myself  by  saying 
it  wasn't  at  all  like  rubbing  one's  cheek  confidingly 
against  sandpaper." 

"And  I  won't  perjure  myself  by  saying  it  was  over- 
good  taste  to  select  me  as  your  confidant.  Under  the 
circumstances,  I'm  not  the  right  person." 

"Can't  help  that,"  said  Larry  coolly;  "you're  the 
only  person,  you  see." 

His  feet  pattered  down  the  stone  steps,  thudded  to 
a  leap  at  the  bottom — God!  how  could  he?  But  I 
allowed  myself  one  throb  of  gladness  for  what  he  had 
last  said  .  .  .  before  I  began  to  think  of  Felicity. 

[12] 

But  perhaps  she  would  have  need  of  me  now. 
Felicity  was  one  of  those  who  reached  for  human  aid 
in  a  crisis  of  suff*ering;  I  had  seen  her  cling  to  Prue 
when  they  lost  Larry  the  first.  But  this  time  the 
solace  of  Prue  was,  of  necessity,  denied.  And: 
"I'm  her  son — her  own  son!"  the  old  tag  which  I  had 
deemed  limp  and  devitalized,  beat  its  measure  again 
all  through  the  next  morning,  while  I  knew  Larry  to 
be  destroying  her  .  .  .  destroying  her  .  .  .  and 
assuring  her  of  his  continued  reverence. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went. 


THE    SHRINE  71 

"Oh,  you,  Kev! — it's  so  good  of  you  to  come;  you 
know  I'm  At  Home  now  on  second  and  fourth  Tues- 
days. You've  just  missed  Magdalen  Ralli,  conveying 
more  obviously  than  ever  that  her  looks  were  burnt 
out  by  passion  and  not  fretted  out  by  time — that's 
what  she  plays  for  you  to  say,  of  course!  I'm 
expecting  quite  a  crowd  this  afternoon." 

She  was  wandering  to  and  fro  in  the  drawing-room, 
her  heels  tapping  the  parquet,  her  hand  now  among 
the  fragile  tea-cups,  now  straightening  a  miniature 
on  the  wall.  She  wore  a  sprigged  muslin  frock,  and 
corals;  her  hair,  with  its  softening  pallor  of  silver  on 
the  gold,  piled  in  high,  loose  curls.  She  motioned  me 
to  a  chair,  and  strove  to  keep  me  entertained  as  though 
I  were  a  visitor;  handed  me  my  tea-cup,  and 
said,  "Here's  rue  for  you — and  here's  some  for  me." 
.  .  .  No,  her  eyes  only,  in  their  stricken  clouded 
blue,  sounded  Ophelia's  plaint  to  my  fancy,  as  I  sat 
and  cursed  Larry — "Milk  and  sugar,  Kevin?  I 
forget.  .  .  ." 

(".  .  .  I  would  give  you  the  violets,  but  they 
withered  all  when  my  father  died.  .  .  .") 

So  he  had  been  that  morning.  I  wondered  dis- 
passionately if  I  would  have  done  better  to  have 
murdered  him  last  night  in  my  rooms — before  Felic- 
ity put  on  that  girlish  little  muslin  frock  and  the 
corals,  to  receive  him.  Or  had  she  changed  into  this 
attire  for  some  distraught  reason  unknown  to  the 
world  beyond  her  sorrow,  after  he  had  left?     For  me, 


72  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

those  dangling  corals  were  part  of  the  nightmare. 

She  went  on  gaily:  "I'm  expecting — let  me  see 
...  oh,  Lord  Chambercombe  nearly  always  comes; 
and  Mrs.  Kildare  and  her  daughter — poor  thing,  she 
can't  remember  she  has  married  a  millionaire,  and 
will  order  things  that  are  in  season  for  her  dinner- 
parties! And — do  you  know  Nina  Barclay? 
And  probably  Norway  Reade,  the  sculptor;  and  little 
Etienne  to  meet  him — I've  promised  the  introduction ; 
it's  such  a  help  to  beginners.  Or  was  it  Lord  Cham- 
bercombe he  was  so  anxious  to  know,  because  of  a 
constituency  somewhere — it  couldn't  be,  though,  as 
he's  a  Frenchman;  one's  friends  are  so  confus- 
ing, and  yet  it  seems  ungracious  to  shut  oneself  away 
from  them.  Weren't  you  once  rather  taken  with  Nina 
Barclay,  Kevin?  She's  engaged  to  the  dramatic 
critic  on  The  Roundabout.'  " 

"Not  a  very  good  match  for  her,  then;  they  never 
have  dramatic  criticism  on  'The  Roundabout'!" 
...  I  had  not  the  remotest  notion  what  I  was  talking 
about.  If  only  she  would  sit  still,  not  keep 
moving  the  empty  chairs  a  few  inches  to  the  right  or 
left.  I  was  glad  nobody  arrived  to  occupy  the  chairs, 
and  yet.  ... 

"I  hate  a  crowd,"  she  repeated  fretfully.  "Larry 
was  here  this  morning,  but  he  won't  come  to  my  after- 
noons— somebody  bores  him,  and  then  he  gets  cross, 
like  all  men.  Have  you  seen  this  little  thing  I  did 
of  Larry?  I  do  think  I've  caught  him  rather 
well."  .  .  . 


THE   SHRINE  73 

I  glowered  in  silence  at  the  bust  of  Larry's  head 
and  shoulders,  on  which  her  preoccupied  hand  was 
for  a  moment  resting  in  caress — it  was  the  identical 
one  of  eight  years  ago,  when  she  had  made  fatal 
discovery  of  Larry  the  first  in  Larry  the  second. 

"Larrikin  is  so  like  him,"  she  whispered. 
"Look,  Kev — isn't  it  ridiculous?"  She  slid  open  a 
drawer  in  the  Vemet-Martin  bureau,  and  passed  me 
a  photograph. 

Larry.  About  four  years  old.  And  beside  him 
a  girl  of  the  same  age,  with  a  shock  of  thick  fair  hair 
falling  over  a  farouche  little  face.    That  puzzled  me. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"Larrikin." 

"Yes,  I  know.     But  the  girl?" 

The  tenderness  in  her  voice  faded  to  indifference. 
"Yo ;  his  twin.  I  named  her  Yolande  after  your  aunt 
who  died  in  India  in  some  terribly  hot  station  in  the 
hills — or  it  may  have  been  because  it  wasn't  in  the 
hills,  that  she  died — ^Kipling  muddles  one  so  about 
India." 

But  I  was  still  intent  on  the  photograph.  A  giant 
fist  had  clenched  somewhere  inside  me  .  .  .  knuckles 
white  with  the  contraction.  ...  I  waited  for  it  to 
relax. 

"Felicity " 

"Miss  Beech.     Miss  Hilda  Beech." 

Felicity  swayed  down  the  room  to  receive  her 
visitors.  They  were  the  only  ones  who  came  that 
afternoon;  two  gawky,  hoydenish  girls,  rather  over- 


74  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

powered  by  Felicity  from  the  outset ;  quite  superfluous 
girls. 

But  what  had  become  of  the  brilliant  "set"  who 
used  to  gather  round  Felicity  Somers  as  a  matter  of 
course?  Had  her  moon  waned?  Had  the  celebrities 
tired  of  her  increasing  vagueness  and  sweet  gracious 
inconsequence?  This  special  afternoon,  barren  and 
dreary,  seemed  too  poignantly  in  keeping  with  the 
situation  overhanging  it,  to  be  mere  accident.  .  .  . 
Miss  Beech  and  Miss  Hilda  Beech  giggling,  "Yes — 
oh,  yes!"  Was  Felicity  entertaining  them  as  she  had 
"entertained"  me? — or  else  a  phantom  company  sit- 
ting about  in  the  empty  chairs?  Her  manner  of 
setting  those  girls  at  ease  was  perfect  as  ever;  her 
epigrams  as  pungent;  her  scandal  ripe,  but  not  too 
ripe.  Miss  Beech  and  Miss  Hilda  Beech  were  not 
worth  the  effort  squandered  on  them;  but  she  con- 
trived that  they  should  leave,  feeling,  I  know,  that 
they  had  gone  down  well  with  their  hostess ;  been,  in 
short,  a  tremendous  success. 

Felicity  informally  saw  them  down  the  steps  to  the 
front  garden  gate;  she  had  forgotten  to  ring  for 
Murray.  I  watched  her  from  the  open  window,  the 
photograph  still  in  my  hand.  Hilda  Beech  remarked 
on  the  beauty  of  the  wistaria,  and  Felicity  raised  her 
arm,  leaning  back  to  pull  down  a  branch  of  it  for  the 
girl  to  pluck.  ...  It  must  have  been  a  pretty  pose 
when  she  had  originated  it  a  few  years  ago — in  just 
such  another  sprigged  muslin,  and  the  sun  on  her 
golden  hair.     Why   did   I  know  so   certainly   that 


THE   SHRINE  75 

it  was  only  Felicity's  wraith  picking  the  spray 
for  a  wraith  who  had  just  quitted  a  crowded 
salon?  .  .  . 

"Good-bye!  good-bye!  Do  come  again!"  She 
bent  a  little  forward  from  the  gate,  as  though  with 
that  anxious,  pleading  smile  she  were  watching  her 
own  charm,  not  quite  sure  of  it  in  the  transit.  .  .  . 

She  came  back  to  me  in  the  drawing-room.  "Dear 
girls!  I'm  so  fond  of  them  both.  I  thought  they 
were  never  going." 

"Felicity," — I  stopped,  fought  for  mastery  over 
that  cramping  cold  fist — "Felicity,  is  this  Larry's 
son?" 

"Larry's  son — and  mine."  She  took  the  photo- 
graph away  from  me,  pored  over  it  lovingly  .  .  .  her 
look  was  a  cradle  song. 

Something  in  my  silence  must  have  recalled  her 
to  the  fact  that  I  had  received  a  shock. 

"You  didn't  know,  Kevin?  No,  of  course  not; 
we  had  to  keep  it  from  Prue,"  however  blank  to  her 
own  egoism  in  scooping  up  the  glory  of  Larry's  youth, 
however  obtuse  to  my  point  of  view,  when  she  spoke 
of  Prue,  compunction,  shame  even,  always  crept  into 
her  tone.  "They  are  at  school  near  Hythe,  and  at 
Thyme  Croft  in  the  holidays.  Larry  would  never  let 
me  tell  you,  though  I  can't  see  why — it  doesn't  make 
any  difference  to  you.     And  now " 

The  unspoken  reference  at  last.  And  I  answered: 
"Larry  was  with  me  last  night.  You'll  be  going  down 
to  Thyme  Croft  tomorrow,  I  suppose?" 


76  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

"Today." 

("I'm  her  own  son — Larry  can  never  be  her  son, 
like  I  am!"  The  old  refrain  still  jigged  and  jeered 
in  my  brain.  .  .  .  Felicity  had  an  own  son,  and 
his  name  was  Larry,  and  his  face  was  Larry's.) 

"Do  you  want  me  to  take  you  down?" 

"Oh  no,"  lightly;  "I'm  quite  independent." 

"Then  good-bye."  As  we  stood  in  the  doorway  I 
suddenly  felt  her  become  definitely  aware  of  my 
height  and  breadth  of  shoulder;  aware  of  me  as  a  son 
grown  up.  The  old  longing  to  shield  her  from  heart- 
break, to  encircle  her  bruised  spirit  strongly,  to  dedi- 
cate my  manhood  in  her  service,  swept  over  me  like  a 
great  wave.  .  .  .  Was  she  going  to  say,  like  Prue: 
"What  a  fine  big  fellow  you  are,  Kevin!"  and  ask  me 
to  move  pianos  for  her? 

Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  that — and  how  much  more, 
gladly! 

"What  a  big  fellow  you  are,  Kevin!"  She 
paused.  "Perhaps  ...  if  I  had  not  had  a  son — of 
his  own  age — even  taller  than  he  is  ...  he  might  not 
have  noticed — so  soon " 

I  took  the  midnight  express  to  PorthgoUan  that 
same  evening. 

[13] 

There,  at  the  farthest  end  of  England,  where  nobody 
knew  of  Larry  Munro,  might  be  reprieve  for 
me  ...  a  short  reprieve  only.     Down  the  past,  as 


THE   SHRINE  77 

far  as  memory  could  travel,  was  Larry;  and  into  the 
future,  as  far  as  vision  could  peer,  Larry;  and  he 
encompassed  my  present  like  a  winding-sheet.  There 
was  no  real  escape.  But  just  for  a  little  while — 
to  forget  that  Felicity  had  said  it  was  my  fault  Larry 
had  told  her  she  was  henceforth  to  be  revered,  not 
desired.  .  .  . 

Not  three  Larry s,  but  one.  Not  one,  but  a  thou- 
sand .  .  .  dynasty  without  end,  clutching  at  the  love 
that  was  due  to  me,  at  the  motherhood  due  to  me,  and 
the  warmth  and  space  due  to  me. 

For  that  journey  I  had  ceased  to  be  ironically 
resigned,  as  of  yore,  to  the  impish  fatality  which 
pressed  me  up  against  a  dynasty.  I  had  just  learnt 
there  was  a  third  of  the  dynasty,  and  I  rebelled. 

Jealous  of  him?  I  was  jealousy!  The  incarnate 
figure  of  it,  hunted  and  malignant  .  .  .  my  brain  a 
warren  where  the  morbid  burrowing  thoughts 
swarmed  like  dark  little  animals  in  and  out  of  their 
numberless  dark  little  holes. 

But  a  journey  west,  by  night,  is  a  blessed  healing 
thing.  It  lulls  by  its  very  rock  and  rhythm — and 
then  wakes  a  sense  of  bold  magic  that  closes  barrier- 
high  at  the  rear  of  the  train,  shutting  off  backward 
vistas. 

Larry  Munro.  .  .  .  Larry  Munro.  .  .  .  Drow- 
sier now.  ...  A  boy  not  yet  twenty,  with  quick- 
silver in  his  heels  and  mischief  in  his  eyes,  and  the 
urge  for  free  adventure  tugging  at  his  spirit. 

Father  of  two  children.     A  boy  not  yet  twenty. 


78  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

Even  now  at  twenty-five  it  rang  unspeakably  sad. 
One  sees  a  young  bridegroom  merged  by  degrees  into 
the  young  husband  and  the  young  parent — the  official 
stages  find  expectation  prepared.  But  to  me  it 
seemed  as  though  Larry  had  been  maimed  in  his  fleet- 
ness,  robbed  of  his  adventure,  and  hung  about  his  neck 
with  a  burdensome  "for  ever,"  all  in  that  one  smiting 
second  of  realization  when  I  held  the  photograph  of 
his  children  in  my  hands.  Poor  old  fellow.  .  .  . 
Poor  old  Larry.  .  .  . 

Larry  Munro.  .  .  .  Larry  Munro.  .  .  .  Drow- 
sier still  ...  by  the  time  the  dawn  broke,  and 
Devon's  flare  of  colour  waved  like  a  flag  beyond  my 
carriage  window,  I  was  able  to  dissociate  my  ego  from 
the  Larry-saga,  and  marvel  once  more  at  the  friend- 
ship between  Felicity  and  Prue,  as  though  it  were 
a  thing  of  long  ago,  dimmed  and  frosted  to 
legend.  ... 


PART    II— BROKEN   CHINA 


[1] 


BARBARA  SETON  and  a  very  primitive  pony- 
cart  met  me  at  St.  Catts,  the  nearest  station 
for  Porthgollan.  Her  manner  was  alternately 
confidential  and  embarrassed ;  I  learnt  afterwards  that 
she  had  impulsively  claimed  to  be  the  one  to  drive  in 
and  fetch  the  strange  young  man,  and  had  wished 
all  the  way  she  had  not  been  such  a  little  fool.  .  .  . 
Barbara  was  seventeen,  and  had  only  just  left  school. 

"Would  you  rather  I  took  you  home  by  the  hill  or 
by  the  nine  gates?"  she  asked,  as  we  drove  off. 

"Is  there  a  catch  in  it?"  doubtfully.  "Because 
I'm  not  very  bright  after  a  night  in  the  train." 

She  laughed.  "Yes,  there  is  a  catch  in  it;  you'd 
have  to  get  down  nine  times  and  open  the  gates." 

"By  the  hill  then,  please." 

"It's  just  exactly  as  you  like,  of  course,"  with  a 
sudden,  solemn  politeness.  Later  on,  I  learnt  these 
lapses  were  typical  of  all  the  Setons,  nipping  you  just 
when  you  took  for  granted  a  happy  state  of  familiar 
intimacy. 

"The  pony  always  falls  on  his  knees  halfway  down 
the  hill — I  hope  you  won't  mind  awfully." 

"Halfway  down  a  hill  isn't  my  hour  for  morning 

81 


82  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

prayers,  but  I'll  follow  the  example  of  any  really 
serious-minded  pony!" 

Barbara  pondered  for  several  minutes  on  the 
general  possibilities  in  my  demeanour — it  is  difficult 
to  look  Spanish  and  languorous  in  a  bumping  cart 
four  feet  by  six,  containing  two  persons,  a  suit  case, 
and  numerous  nobbly  parcels;  but  evidently  I 
achieved  this  effect,  for  she  said  firmly:  "We'll  go 
home  by  the  gates,"  risking  no  emergencies  before  my 
worth  was  proven. 

"I  say,  I  hope  you  won't  mind  awfully" — every 
second  phrase  contained  the  gauche  apology,  "but  I've 
got  to  wait  outside  the  apothecary's  till  the  8.45  has 
started,  and  get  embrocation  and  lead  shot  for  Ned." 

I  rubbed  my  eyes  contentedly,  and  asked  if  I 
might  light  a  pipe.  Porthgollan  was  so  far  away 
from  everywhere,  and  Barbara  was  so  pretty,  and  it 
was  early  morning  with  bits  of  sea  stabbing  in  vivid 
blue  slits  and  triangles  and  patches  at  all  the  remoter 
points  of  the  landscape,  with  no  respect  for  geog- 
raphy .  .  .  and  I  liked  the  bit  about  the  apothecary. 

"Go  on.  Why  does  the  apothecary  lead  a  double 
life?" 

"He's  the  signal-man,"  laughed  Barbara,  drawing 
up  outside  his  shop.  "And  every  afternoon  when 
there  are  no  trains  in  and  out,  is  early  closing  day 
here — except  Thursdays  and  Saturdays.  It's  a 
terribly  difficult  village  to  manage.  The  butcher 
only  kills  on  Wednesdays,  so  he's  open  on  a  Thurs- 
day; and  the  baker  is  never  open  before  2  P.  M.     And 


BROKEN    CHINA  83 

General  Stores  are  just  a  joke,  because  they're  never 
opened  at  all — they  went  smash  directly  after  they 
had  the  name  painted  up.  Only,  of  course,  strangers 
don't  know  that,  and  hang  about.  .  .  ." 

She  paused,  breathless.  She  had  me  under  deep- 
set  observation,  eager  to  hail  me  as  "all  right"  by 
hockey-field  standard  of  measurement;  my  arrival 
was  obviously  a  shy  excitement  to  the  child  to  whom 
leisure  had  hitherto  only  meant  holidays.  Barbara 
was  so  delightfully  just-left-school. 

"What  does  the  post-office  do  in  the  comic  line? 
There  are  enormous  possibilities  in  a  post-office." 

"It  doesn't  do  very  much — only  keeps  shut  until 
twenty  minutes  after  the  one-outgoing-post-a-day  has 
gone  Qut,  so  that  you  can't  stamp  your  letters  unless 
you've  done  it  the  day  before.  And  they  send 
telegrams  up  as  a  sort  of  a  favour,  only  if  they  like 
you.  They  adore  mother,  or  we  shouldn't  have  had 
yours  last  night." 

"I  should  hate  to  be  dependent  on  the  affections 
of  the  post-office  to  get  the  news  of  my  father's  death, 
or  not." 

"Oh — is  he  ill?"  Barbara  looked  startled  and 
apprehensive. 

"Dead." 

"Well,  then  it  doesn't  matter  .  .  ."  she  began — 
and  bit  her  lip,  crimsoning;  to  cover  her  lapse  she 
plunged  breathlessly  into  further  accounts  of  Porth- 
gollan  and  its  eccentricities: 

"D'you  hear  that  bell?     They  ring  the  same  one 


84  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

for  muffins  and  church,  so  that  we  never  know  if  it's 
tea-time  or  Sunday — mother  put  it  like  that  in  one 
of  her  books,"  she  admitted  frankly;  "I  suppose  I 
ought  to  tell  you?" 

I  nodded :  "Yes,  I  remember  it.  It's  in  '  The 
Square  Peg.'  " 

"Are  you  going  to  remember  all  mother's  quota- 
tions?" disgustedly.  "Because  they've  got  well 
mixed  up  in  the  language — our  private  home 
language,  you  know.  And  a  few  of  them  were  Ned's 
and  Micky's  and  mine  to  begin  with,  so  it  wouldn't  be 
fair  to  think  we  were  cribbing.  Here  is  Mr.  Cragge," 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  as  the  apothecary  ambled  up 
from  the  tiny  station  which  was  the  terminus  of  the 
branch  line. 

Soon  we  were  jogging  between  hedges  that  were 
walls — or  walls  that  were  hedges — I  was  not  sure 
which,  with  the  sea  gleaming  between  the  feathery 
green  of  the  tamarisks. 

"I  say,  I  hope  you  won't  mind  awfully — but  Ned 
does  revolver  practice.  I  expect  he'll  get  tired  of  it 
in  a  week  or  two,"  consolingly. 

"Does  he  give  exact  warning  at  what  hour  and  in 
what  place  he  intends  to  do  revolver  practice?" 

"Oh  no;  he  does  it  just  when  and  where  he 
feels  inclined.  Mother  doesn't  mind,  but  Henry  is  a 
bit  nervous.  Henry  is  our  father.  Are  you 
nervous?" 

"I  shall  probably  do  a  bit  of  revolver  practice 


BROKEN   CHINA  85 

myself,  when  I  feel  inclined,"  I  assured  her  carelessly. 
"What's  this  coming?" 

"This"  was  a  piercing  cry  of  "Mack'rel!  fi' 
mack'rel!"  from  an  approaching  cart.  Barbara  im- 
mediately pulled  up  and  bought  a  large  quantity  of 
fish.  It  was  quite  in  keeping  with  the  character  of 
Porthgollan,  that  the  wag  who  cried  "Mack'rel" 
should  have  only  sprats  for  sale.  And  equally  so 
that  the  milkman  whom  we  passed  a  few  moments 
later,  should  sing  out  cheerily  that  his  grandmother 
would  consent  to  do  the  washing  for  Mrs.  Seton  that 
week,  as  the  weather  was  fine. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  I  related  to  Barbara,  "there 
was  a  village  idiot  without  a  village.  And  he  felt 
very  forlorn.  So  he  fell  asleep  and  dreamt  a  village 
and  lived  happy  in  it  ever  after.  And  it  happened 
to  be  Porthgollan." 

Barbara  liked  this.  And  I  liked  Barbara.  We 
were  excellent  friends  when  we  sighted  Micky  a-swing 
on  the  gate  of  the  grey  stone  cottage  called  The  Shoe. 
It  was  a  good  world  .  .  .  and  I  had  assuredly  left 
Larry  Munro  behind  me. 

[2] 

I  had  met  Micky  before,  so  his  carefully  formal 
greeting  and  well-nigh  angel  beauty  did  not  decieve 
me  in  the  slightest;  being  aware  that  his  thirteen 
years  were  as  crammed  full  of  wickedness  as  it  was 


86  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

healthy  for  them  to  be,  and  that  his  only  skyward 
disposition  was  in  his  nose  and  thick  black  lashes. 
His  eyes  were  bluer  than  Barbara's,  and  his  skin's 
original  fairness  dazzled  through  the  brown  bloom 
with  which  Cornwall  had  lightly  washed  it.  And  his 
hair  was  a  million  tiny  tips  of  gold.  .  .  .  And  as 
though  all  this  were  not  enough,  his  mother  who 
adored  him,  had  firmly  pronounced  him  Psychic — 
poor  Micky! 

Kate  Seton,  who  now  appeared  from  the  house,  her 
bare,  brown  feet  sturdily  defying  the  purple  plush 
tea-gown  arrangement  she  wore,  had  this  disconcert- 
ing habit  of  making  leaps  in  psychology  which  landed 
her  on  the  wrong  side  of  nowhere.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
she  suffered  herself  to  be  gently  led  back  to  the  place 
from  whence  she  started.  Usually  she  could  not  be 
budged.  Thus  I  knew  from  previous  conversation 
with  her  that  Micky  alliteratively  was  a  Mystic; 
that  Barbara  had  the  Maternal  Instinct;  that  Ned,  a 
year  younger  than  Bar^bara,  was  an  Artist  ...  or 
was  it  a  Pagan? — I  forget.  Kate's  husband,  an 
amiable  but  futile  person  called  Henry,  she  had  irre- 
vocably set  down  as  a  Decadent.  She  ran  the  four 
along  these  lines,  sternly  resisting  their  slighteslt 
attemps  at  deviation;  and  as  in  all  other  respects  she 
was  a  kindly,  humorous  woman,  sensible  and  ener- 
getic, the  household  prospered.  Curiously,  in  her 
novels  her  psychology  was  imerring.  Some  divine 
instinct  seemed  to  guide  her  wobbliness,  and  then 
meanly  forsake  her  the  instant  the  pen  was  laid  aside. 


BROKEN    CHINA  87 

I  had  had  my  label  affixed  two  years  ago.  "Mis- 
understood" was  scrawled  upon  it,  in  Mrs.  Seton's 
squarest  caligraphy.  I  read  "Misunderstood"  beam- 
ing in  pity  from  both  her  eyes,  as  she  welcomed  me  to 
The  Shoe.  Such  assumptions  are  infectious.  ...  I 
began  to  feel  Misunderstood  all  over. 

"Good  boy,  to  have  come.  You  want  breakfast, 
of  course.  No,  don't  bother  to  wash,  or  wash 
at  the  pump.  You  hadn't  seen  Babs  before,  had  you? 
She  would  meet  you — oh,  I'm  sorry,  my  dear," 
at  Barbara's  scowl  of  agony;  "better  help  your  father 
and  Ned  with  the  beds  till  your  face  cools  off.  Come 
along,  'Kevin.     Micky,  go  and  pick  snails  for  Lulu." 

"Lulu's  the  pig,"  Micky  explained  to  me  kindly. 
Bar^bara  had  flown  to  the  far  end  of  the  lawn,  where 
two  males  were  apparently  cavorting  in  the  blanket- 
trot  and  the  bolster-roll.  "Are  you  going  to  open  the 
strawberry  jam  for  Kevin,  mother?" 

"Yes — for  Kevin,''^  emphatically. 

Micky,  in  simple  friendliness,  slipped  his  arm  into 
mine,  and  we  all  three  entered  the  kitchen,  which  was 
also  the  living-room. 

"Do  you  want  to  sleep  out  in  the  garden  with  us, 
or  indoors,  Kevin?  Because  if  out,  they  must  put 
you  up  an  extra  bed." 

Micky  said  ruminatively :  "I  believe  Barbara 
would  kick  at  that."  And  Mrs.  Seton  and  I 
exchanged  a  perturbed  smile. 

"My  son — go  forth  and  pick  snails." 

"But,  mother.  .  .  ." 


88  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

"My  son,  I  have  spoken." 

"Mother,  mayn't  I  sleep  indoors  if  it  rains  to- 
night?" 

"No — nor  any  other  night.  You  know  what  the 
doctor  said." 

"Mother" — Micky  was  almost  crying  now — "am 
I  never  to  sleep  in  a  bed  again?" 

"Good  heavens,  don't  I  always  sacrifice  myself 
on  the  other  bunk?  How  many  mothers,  do  you 
suppose,  would  sleep  in  a  pig-sty,  at  my  age,  just  to 
keep  you  company?" 

"If  I  slept  on  a  bed,  in  a  room  with  a  roof,"  Micky 
wheedled,  "you  wouldn't  have  to." 

"I  dare  say.     Go  and  pick  snails." 

Micky  departed,  murmuring  anarchy  and  revolu- 
tion. 

"I  shall  put  the  case  to  the  S.P.C.C.,"  I  warned  her. 

"Micky  isn't  as  strong  as  he  should  be.  .  .  ."  For 
one  moment  she  was  all  mother.  Then,  confiden- 
tially, "I  ought  to  have  remembered  about  Barbara 
— before  Micky  reminded  me.  All  the  footling  little 
things  one  has  to  take  into  account  with  a  grown-up 
daughter  about;  and  she  flushes  and  flares  into 
tempers,  and  accuses  me  of  telling  her  too  little  .  .  . 
or  too  much — and  runs  away  for  the  day,  and  upsets 
herself  over  nothing,  and  goes  dancing  mad  with 
infectious  high  spirits  when  I  want  to  shut  myself  up 
and  work;  and  says  'Mother,  how  can  you!'  horri- 
fied over  my  most  innocent  habits  of  years — I  shan't 
be  natural  or  happy  again  till  I  get  her  married.  .  .  . 


BROKEN   CHINA  89 

K.  B.  Seton  fixed  me  broodingly — they  all  had  this 
deep-set  grey-blue  scrutiny — waited  a  few  moments 
that  no  possible  suspicion  could  connect  her  next 
speech  with  her  last;  and  then  said:  "Do  you  like 
Barbara?" 

"In  Barbara's  name  I  say,  'Mother,  how  can 
you?'"  I  countered,  champion  in  Barbara's  cause. 
If  Kate  behaved  with  this  naive  candor  to  every 
eligible  who  entered  the  house,  I  could  understand 
that  the  girl  had  rolled  herself  up  into  a  ball  of 
sensitive  thorns. 

"Too  soon.  .  .  .  Have  some  more  coffee?  Don't 
scowl  at  me,  Kevin,  I've  got  a  lot  to  put  up  with.  I'm 
a  no  /elist  and  a  mother  of  stalwart  sons.  That's  all  I 
can  manage.  I'd  forgotten  Barbara.  .  .  .  She  used 
to  go  to  her  school-friends  for  most  of  her  holidays. 
And  then  I'd  reckoned  she  might  be  a  genius,  and  I've 
begged  her  to  beg  me  to  send  her  for  three  years  to  the 
Conservatoire  in  Paris  or  to  Montmartre  or  Dresden, 
or  any  of  those  convenient  places  where  art  and  music 
can  be  studied " 

"And  every  one  would  praise  your  sacrifice  in  your 
little  daughter's  interests.  Won't  Barbara  oblige 
with  a  single  talent?" 

"She's  just  a  nice,  normal  girl  of  seventeen  who 
wants  to  be  given  a  good  time,"  said  Kate  Seton  in 
quiet  desperation.  "I'd  have  coped  gallantly  with  a 
wild,  inspired  daughter.  ...  I'd  have  understood 
her  subtle  needs  and  strange  fancies  as  few  mothers 
could — in  fact,  I  meant  to  be  a  mother  to  that  sort 


90  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

of  thing.  But  the  nice,  normal  girl  is  well  beyond 
me.  I  can't  even  write  about  them.  .  .  .  She's 
a  dear,  sweet  child,  and  very  fond  of  me,  and  comes 
to  me  for  guidance,  and  when  I  give  it  to  her  wrong, 
she  puts  me  right.  It  seems  I'm  all  wrong  in  my 
morals  and  my  outlook  and  my  tolerances — oh, 
Barbara  knows;  Barbara  knows  for  certain.  She 
knows  that  good's  good  and  bad's  bad."  The  psy- 
chological novelist  sought  my  compassion  at  such  a 
state  of  things. 

"I'm  worried,  Kevin.  I'm  blighted.  How  long 
is  it  to  go  on?  In  the  interests  of  English  literature, 
ought  she  to  be  allowed  to  play  about  spoiling  an 
excellent  novel  in  the  making? — my  making.  And 
she's  chockful  of  maternal  instinct" — I  was  waiting 
for  this — "super-developed.  Her  job  is  mothering 
a  brood,  and  then  she'd  stop  brooding  over  a  mother 

"     Another  hopeful  pause  to  allow  me  to  make 

formal  proposal  for  Barbara's  hand. 

"It's  better  to  let  an  excellent  novel  be  spoilt  than 
a  girl's  playtime,"  I  said,  pedantically;  and  helped 
myself  to  cream  and  hot  splits  and  honeycomb — a 
conjunction  of  happiness  to  be  recommended. 
"Umph!     Are  you  still  unhappy  at  home?" 
"I  haven't  been  living  at  home  for  two  years." 
She  paused.    "And  you've  never  told  me.    Why?" 
"You   can't   exort   confidences   with   a   bludgeon, 
Kate  dear."     We  were  quite  intimate  friends,  she  and 
I. 

She  stood  up,  putting  both  her  hands  on  my  shoul- 


BROKEN    CHINA  91 

ders.  Her  shrewd  little  eyes  were  full  of  affection. 
"Has  your  mother  ever  loved  you  as  she  ought  to, 
Kevin?" 

I  thrust  aside  the  prig's  halo  tendered  for  my  wear. 

"Felicity  has  always  been  very  polite  and  pleasant 
tome." 

"Of  all  things  that  most  exasperate  me,  reserve 
and  discretion  are  the  worst,"  said  Kate,  frankly. 
"They're  such  silly  qualities.  Here  have  I  been 
laying  bare  my  very  soul  to  you,  and  if  you'd  only  do 
the  same  to  me,  everything  would  be  jolly  and  easy 
all  round!" 

"If  there  were  no  taciturnities  and  withholdings, 
K.  B.  Seton,  and  everything  were  jolly  and  easy  all 
round,  what  would  you  write  your  novels  about?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  argue  with  you.  You've  been 
very  unsympathetic.  Go  and  be  taciturn  with 
Barbara — her  soul  is  full  of  these  little  nun's  gardens 
— you'll  be  a  nice,  spontaneous  pair.  Oh,  here 
comes  Ned — he'll  take  you  out  and  try  to  kill  you, 
while  I  finish  off  Part  II.  of  my  new  book." 

I  discovered  that  Ned  Seton's  way  of  entertaining 
family  and  guests  was  on  a  system  of:  "Bet  you 
can't  do  this!"  On  to  the  recurring  phrase  we  were 
all  perilously  suspended.  Ned  risked  his  life  cheer- 
fully ninety  times  a  day,  saying:  "Bet  you  can't  do 
this!" 

Of  the  entertainment  proffered  by  the  three  young 
Setons  while  their  mother  finished  Part  II.,  Micky's 
was  to  be  preferred  as  the  most  mature.     Babs  still 


92  THEGHINASHOP 

shied  away  from  me,  with  the  merest  intervals  of 
impulsive  friendship — perhaps  she  suspected  that 
"mother  had  been  awful  again,"  in  conversation  with 
me.  It  was  Micky  who  conscientiously  showed  me 
the  bathing-pool,  and  the  view  from  the  headland,  and 
the  smuggler's  cave,  and  the  ruins  of  the  altar  of 
St.  Constantine,  all  the  stock  ruggedness  of  the  wild 
Cornish  coast,  which  must  be  endured  and  got  over 
before  one  can  begin  to  discover  for  oneself  the  innate 
friendliness  or  ferocity  of  the  place;  itVas  Micky 
who,  letting  Ned  plunge  on  wildly  ahead  shouting 
his  monotonous  challenge,  turned  from  rock  to  rock  to 
see  if  I  were  close  behind,  and  gravely  offered  me  the 
help  of  his  hand.  "There's  rather  a  difficult  place 
here.  I  think  if  we  went  round  that  way,  and  put 
your  other  foot  on  this  little  bit.  Mind  the  seaweed 
— it's  the  slippery  sort!" 

"Micky,"  at  last;  "honestly,  d'you  know,  I  may 
be  a  bit  weak  and  tottery,  with  St.  Vitus'  dance  from 
birth,  and  I  haven't  got  my  sea-legs  yet,  and  my  heart 
is  diseased,  and  my  lungs  both  rotten,  and  I'm  liable 
to  vertigo  at  any  moment,  and  my  nerves,  of  course, 
are  in  bits — but  I'm  not  absolutely  senile." 

Micky  threw  me  a  gleam  of  mischievous  compre- 
hension; "Ned  has  laid  up  most  of  our  visitors,"  he 
explained.  "It  doesn't  matter  with  our  own  friends; 
they  can  look  after  themselves,  but  you  belong  to 
mother's  lot;  I  mean  you  knew  her  before  you  knew 


us." 


"That  proves  nothing,"  I  argued,  knowing  well 


BROKEN   CHINA  93 

that  in  Micky's  sight  it  put  me  a  generation  wrong. 

He  sat  down  in  a  shallow  pool,  and  put  both  his 
hands  about  his  knees.  "It's  astounded  me  in  a  way, 
that  you  should  be  able  to  be  any  sort  of  a  companion 
to  her — because  mother's  pretty  old  and  pretty  in- 
telligent." 

I  felt  it  was  time  I  did  something  drastic  in 
Micky's  sight;  just  then  Ned  halloed  from  half- 
way up  a  beetling  cliff — at  least  a  cliff  which  offered 
no  apparent  footholds  whatever,  and  also  slanted  the 
wrong  way,  which  I  take  to  be  the  essentials  of 
"beetling." 

"Bet  you  can't  do  this!" 

I  did  it. 

Micky  accepted  the  reproof  like  a  cherub.  And 
we  came  shouting  and  pummelling  home,  wet  and 
torn,  and  covered  in  slime  and  sand,  a  trio  of  idiot 
good  fellowship. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  considered;  pray  don't  consider 
me,  I'm  nobody,  nobody  at  all  in  this  household. 
Who  am  I — ?  Don't  take  the  slightest  notice  of 
me.  .  .  ."  Henry  Seton  entered  late  for  the  meal, 
his  white  hair  in  a  brush  of  perturbation. 

"No,  Henry,  we  don't;  you  shan't  be;  we're  not," 
his  wife  soothed  him.  "Would  you  like  the  wishing- 
bone,  Micky?" 

Mr.  Seton  burst  out:  "If  you  want  to  know,  the 
sheep  are  in  the  meadow,  and  the  pigs  in  the  corn!" 

"Little  Boy  Blue,  come  blow  up  your  son  .  .  ." 
retorted    Kate.     ''He    pulled    down    the    tamarisk 


94  THEGHINASHOP 

boughs  we  laid  across  the  gap  in  the  hedge  this 
morning,  and  didn't  stop  to  put  them  back." 

"It  was  for  Kevin  to  get  through,"  lied  Micky. 
"You  told  me  to  look  after  him,  mother." 

"Yes,  it  was  for  me  to  get  through,"  I  upheld 
him.  "And  he  looked  after  me  like  a  Matthew,  Mark, 
Luke,  and  John!" 

Micky  twinkled  me  his  gratitude.  Barbara, 
sturdily  practical,  had  already  darted  out  of  doors  to 
cope  with  the  rampaging  animals.  I  joined  her. 
The  sheep  were  easily  enough  diverted  back  into 
their  proper  sphere;  but  Lulu,  excited  no  doubt  by 
her  recent  demolishment  of  a  whole  two-pound  jam- 
pot full  of  snails,  performed  a  clumsy  and  intoxicated 
saraband  among  the  green,  sunlit  corn,  defying 
Barbara,  who  with  a  short  stick  in  her  hand,  and  her 
long,  light  brown  hair  blown  straightly  out  by  the 
sea-wind,  reminded  me  irresistibly  of  an  illustration 
to  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales.  The  goose-girl — the 
swine-herd's  daughter  .  .  .  her  graceful  ankles  and 
arms  were  bare;  her  attention  was  completely 
absorbed  by  the  big  black  pig.  "Head  her  off  to  the 
gap,  Kevin!"  as  it  lunged  in  my  direction. 

I  caught  Lulu  in  my  arms.  Lulu  was  astonished. 
So  was  L  "There  you  are,  little  lady!"  Barbara 
helped  me  lace  the  gap  anew  with  branches. 

We  returned  triumphantly  to  The  Shoe,  rather 
inclined  to  preen  ourselves  on  our  achievement. 
Also  and  inasmuch  as  any  ridiculous  experience 
shared  promoted  friendship  far  swifter  than  tragedy 


BROKEN   CHINA  95 

or  peril,  we  returned  a  hundred  degrees  more  intimate 
than  when  we  had  rushed  forth. 

"Barbara,"  I  whispered  hurriedly  at  the  gate, 
"don't  leave  me  to  Micky  this  afternoon.  Please 
don't.  I'm  tired  of  being  cherished.  Let's  run  away 
together." 

[3] 

And  a  few  hours  later  found  us  alone  on  a  tri- 
angular pinnacle  of  rock,  out-jutting  between  two 
narrow  bays  of  stealthy,  sombre-green  water,  which 
pushed  silently  and  relentlessly  into  the  rounded 
archway  of  the  cave  yawning  far  back  into  the  cliff. 
In  contrast  to  the  swimming  coolness  below  and  sur- 
rounding us,  our  rock  island,  for  it  was  so  slightly 
joined  to  the  mainland  by  a  dizzy  six-inch  causeway 
as  to  be  almost  imperceptible  once  crossed,  was  tilted 
boldly  up  as  though  to  attract  every  arrow  of  sun 
that  slanted  eastward  across  the  Atlantic.  Barbara 
lay  prone  among  the  cushions  and  knolls  and  tufts  of 
sea-thrift,  her  neck  and  arms  plunged  deep  in  the 
bright  pink  pungently-scented  flower,  her  eyes  dream- 
ing out  to  a  tiny  russet  sail. 

"This  is  the  Dead  Kings'  Burial-ground,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"What  is?" 

"The  mound  we're  lying  on  now.  The  dead  kings 
of  Cornwall  were  all  buried  here — Constantine,  and 
the  rest." 


96  THECHINASHOP 

"And  who  is  the  King  of  Cornwall  now,  Barbara?" 

"George,  I  suppose,"  she  replied  in  matter-of-fact 
tones.     And  I  became  annoyed. 

"I  have  the  deepest  respect  for  George  and  Mary — 
but  they've  got  all  the  rest  of  England  and  India,  and 
so  on.  Cornwall  is  different,  it  ought  to  have  a 
monarch  of  its  own.  /  will  be  King  of  Cornwall. 
And  this  burial-ground  shall  be  my  throne.  And  I'll 
start  with  a  massacre,  just  to  show  'em!" 

"There's  no  one  here  to  show,  and  there's  no  one 
here  to  massacre  either."  Barbara  raised  herself  on 
elbow,  and  looked  me  steadily  in  the  face. 

"Am  I  then  alone  on  the  Dead  Kings'  Burial- 
ground?" 

She  thought  it  over.  Then — "I  think  you're  a 
pig,"  in  inconsequent  discovery. 

''Lese  Majeste.     That  settles  it." 

Just  in  time  to  save  herself  from  being  precipi- 
tated into  the  abyss  down  that  sinister  slope  disguised 
innocently  by  the  blowing  sea-thrift,  Barbara  called 
out — "If  you're  King  of  Cornwall,  I'm  Queen!" — and 
I  released  her. 

"Why  couldn't  you  say  so  before?  It  might  have 
been  too  late  to  save  yourself.  That  would  have  been 
quite  a  good  joke,  though  .  .  .  the  first  joke  perpe- 
trated by  his  Merry  Majesty,  King  Kevin  of  Cornwall. 
.  .  .  I'm  going  to  revive  some  of  these  rich 
mediaeval  forms  of  humour." 

"We'll  have  a  jester,  then,  to  be  funny." 

"We'U  have  an  executioner  to  be  funny,"     grimly. 


BROKEN   CHINA  97 

"  I  don't  like  executioners  much.  Because  of 
Lady  Jane  Grey.  He  took  two  blows  with  the  axe 
before  he  cut  it  off." 

"If  our  executioner  ever  takes  more  than  one  blow 
to  cut  it  off,  he  shall  be  executed  by  the  jester." 

"And  we'll  all  look  on,  and  laugh  heartily,"  cried 
Barbara,  unexpectedly  displaying  some  of  the  rich 
and  jocund  spirit  of  the  more  full-blooded  period  I 
was  reviving. 

"Are  you  keen  on  pomp  and  ceremony  and  ritual 
and  regalia? — ^barbaric  splendour  and  profligate 
customs?" 

"Yes,  I'd  enjoy  it  sometimes;  but  it  would  make  me 
feel  stuffy,  like  Sundays,  if  I  had  too  much  of  it!" 

"We  could  always  run  away  and  throw  off  our 
shoes  and  stockings  and  go  prawning,  when  we  were 
fed  up " 

"Or  smuggling.  This  coast  is  packed  with  secret 
paths  and  caves  and  doorways  in  the  rock — Oh,  could 
we — I  mean,  would  it  be  compatible  with  our  royal 
dignity?"  her  lips  were  parted  in  breathless  excite- 
ment, her  eyes  freckled  with  roguery. 

"To  patronize  smugglers?  Our  subjects  needn't 
know,  need  they? — and  we'll  be  admitted  to  all  the 
smugglers'  councils  and  pow-wows  and  villainous 
enterprises.  Oh,  and  wreckers  ought  to  be  encour- 
aged. Wrecking  was  a  glorious  pastime  for  winter 
evenings.  You  light  a  match  on  a  headland  and  trust 
to  luck  that  the  foundering  ship  holds  treasure  to  be 
washed  ashore  with  the  cold  tide  at  dawn.     It's  great 


98  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

fun — much  better  than  tiddliwinks.  We'll  exact  kegs 
of  old  brandy  and  gold  dust  and  rolls  of  lace  as 
tribute  from  every  sunken  ship,  and  the  wreckers  can 
put  on  their  advertisement  'Under  Royal  Patronage 
— Wreckers  to  their  Majesties  the  King  and  Queen  of 
Cornwall.'  "... 

"Like  bootmakers,"  murmured  Barbara.  "Sup- 
posing the  cargo  turned  out  to  be  only  penwipers  or — 
or  lexicons?" 

I  reminded  her  that  bloodthirsty  pirates  have  blood- 
thirsty cargoes — "Such  as  blood-oranges  and — oh, 
what  other  bloodish  thing  is  there  that  one  can  men- 
tion in  good  society?" 

"Blood  relations?"  suggested  Barbara  doubtfully. 
"I  think  that  if  a  cargo  of  blood  relations  were  washed 
ashore,  I  should  want  to  throw  them  to  the  Potted 
Gargoyle." 

"I  didn't  know  we  had  one,  but  it's  quite  a  good 
thought." 

"He  lives  in  that  cave  and  he  ramps,"  pointing 
downwards — "But  he's  only  Partly-a-Gargoyle ; 
we  are  not  quite  sure  what  the  other  part  is,"  Barbara 
reluctantly  confessed. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders;  "Why  worry?" 

"Oh,  I  don't.  And  then  I  have  other  royal  visitors 
— ^jolly  people  like  Prester  John  and  the  Khan  of 
Samarkand.  I'll  invest  them  with  the  Grand  Order 
of  Partly-a-Gargoyle." 

"With  the  crest  and  motto:  'Why  worry?'  It's 
rather  cheek  of  you  to  talk  about  investing  your 


BROKEN   CHINA  99 

visitors,  though,  in  that  independent  sort  of  fashion. 
/'/7i  going  to  give  dinner-parties  that  will  shock 
you " 

"Shock  away!" 

I  looked  at  her  apprehensively. 

"How  old  are  you?     Sixteen?" 

"Nearly  eighteen.     You  can't  shock  me." 

Thus  challenged,  I  boldly  announced  my  intention 
of  entertaining  six  selected  harlot  empresses  of 
ancient  Rome. 

"Pooh!"  Barbara  exclaimed,  as  though  she  had 
sported  with  harlot  empresses  all  her  life. 

"Messalina,  Faustina,  Theodora,  Poppaea,  Cleo- 
patra— she  was  Egypt,  but  it  doesn't  matter — Jezdbel 
and  Jael."     I  re-filled  my  pipe  with  a  satisfied  air. 

"That's  seven,  and  you've  mixed  the  Bible  in." 

"Aholibah  and  Lucrezia  Borgia,"  firmly,  to  show 
that  I  was  not  going  to  be  bullied  by  any  schoolgirl. 
"Lucrezia  might  be  able  to  give  me  a  wrinkle  or 
two." 

"She  would,"  vindictively,  "a  great  many — the  cat! 
And  that  makes  nine  harlot  empresses." 

"And  I'll  invite  nine  evangelical  curates  to  take 
them  in  to  dinner.  The  harlots  shall  drink  tumblers 
of  new  milk  from  our  own  dairy,  and  the  curates 
some  richly-stained  and  evil-looking  liqueurs  in 
green  and  gold  and  translucent  crimson.  During  the 
*  courses  my  favourite  jongleur  shall  improvise  songs 
concerning  my  valiant  prowess  and  doughty  deeds." 

"Ought  we  to  bore  our  guests?"  queried  Barbara 


100  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

innocently.     But  a  swift  revenge  overwhelmed  her: 

"My  guests.  You  shall  come  into  dessert,  if  you're 
good,  Babs,  and  recite  to  us,  in  your  white  spotted 
muslin  and  wide  blue  sash." 

Her  indignation  rose  and  crashed  upon  me  like  a 
wave. 

"I  haven't  got  a  white  spotted  muslin — who — ^who 
told  you  I  had ?" 

"And  a  wreath  of  sea-thrift  in  your  hair." 
Teasingly  I  dropped  a  whole  handful  of  the  blossom 
over  her  face  and  her  slender  white  arms — Barbara 
never  seemed  to  tan,  for  all  her  boyish  disregard  of 
coverings.  It  was  good  to  be  there  and  talk  nonsense 
to  this  pretty  schoolgirl  with  the  frank,  questioning 
eyes.  .  .  .  And,  somehow,  looking  at  Barbara's  un- 
conscious grace  softly  defined  by  her  short,  grey-green 
skirt  and  faded  jersey  and  cap  of  the  same  hue,  look- 
ing at  Barbara,  and  knowing  how  absolutely  certain 
she  was,  in  her  rigid  baby  code,  of  right  and  wrong, 
straight  and  crooked ;  aware  that  she  was  simply  and 
sublimely  unaware  of — well,  practically  everything; 
looking  at  Barbara,  I  felt  as  though  my  hatred  of 
Larry  and  all  the  evil  it  had  entailed  was  pouring 
away  like  black  rapids,  leaving  me  a  little  dazed, 
forgetful  and  secure,  aloft  on  this  sunwashed  pin- 
nacle, among  the 'sea -thrift  with  Barbara.  .  .  . 

Glad  of  her,  I  put  out  a  hand  and  laid  it  over  hers 
— the  Lord  knows  I  meant  no  harm — no  sinister 
designs  on  a  trustful  maid  .  .  .  but  Barbara  was 
plainly  disconcerted.     She  flushed   crimson — flung 


BROKEN   CHINA  101 

me  a  tentative,  questioning  glance — turned; her- he^cl 
away  again;  I  saw  her  lips  quiver;  her  hand  had 
jerked  once  under  mine,  then  was  obviously  re- 
directed to  remain  quiescent.  I  followed  her 
racing  emotions  easily  enough.  .  .  . 

"Why  not  ask  me?''     I  suggested. 

"You?— but  I  wasn't— Ask  what?" 

"What  you're  just  now  longing  to  ask  your  mother 
or  your  best  friend — the  proper  behaviour  when  a 
young  man  .  .  .  does  this?  Ask  me,  dear,  since  I'm 
here." 

Barbara  was  wildly  bewildered.  She  was  pre- 
pared that  I  should  go  to  any  length  of  wickedness, 
but  not  that  I  should  make  kind  offer  to  assist  her 
in  the  perplexities  of  which  I  was  the  cause. 

"Your  first  instinct,"  I  teased  her,  "was  to  snatch 
your  hand  away  and  run,  but  it  struck  you  that  I 
might  consider  such  conduct  very  juvenile,  and  that 
you  ought  rather  to  impress  me,  by  your  perfect 
haughtiness  and  savoir  faire,  that  you  are  capable  of 
dealing  with  such  trifling  incidentals  ...  so  unwil- 
lingly you  left  it  there,  Barbara,  and  tilted  up 
your  nose  at  the  sky  .  .  .  but  that  was  such  a  very 
puzzled,  piteous  look  that  you  shot  at  me,  when  you 
thought  I  was  busy  with  my  pipe.  You  were  wonder- 
ing what  it  would  lead  to,  and  whether  you  were  a  prig 
to  mind — and — Micky  and  Ned  wouldn't  approve, 
would  they?  They'd  call  you  soppy.  Only  life, 
your  life,  is  slipping  beyond  the  judgment 
of  even  Micky,  nowadays.     And  then — and  then,  Bar- 


102  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

1/ara,  you  started  to  feel  a  little  bit  happier,  though 
the  monster's  hand  was  still  holding  yours — ^because 
your  mouth  curved  at  the  comers,  and  your  frown 
got  sort  of  mixed  up  with  a  smile — and — and  I 
believe  you  began  to  like  it,  Barbara  .  .  ." 

I  released  the  small  clenched  fist. 

"This  is  what  they  call  flirting,  Barbara." 

"I  hate  girls  who  flirt,"  came  muffled  from  chastity 
cooling  her  cheeks  among  the  springy  cushions  of  the 
thrift.     "I  mean,  I  hate  men  who  flirt." 

"So  do  I,"  heartily.     "Who  began  it,  though?" 

"Oh — your  springing  upright  in  raging  con- 
tradiction. 

"Quite  right.  Me.  I'm  awfully  penitent.  You 
can  push  me  into  that  pool  of  slimy  black  seaweed  on 
the  way  home,  if  you  like.  But  there  was  no  harm 
really,  you  know!" 

Doubtful,  now,  her  deep  scrutiny — and  still 
bewildered.  Then,  reassured,  it  broke  into  gay 
laughter: 

"It  was  so  absurd  of  you  to  suggest  that  I  should 
ask  you  what  to  do!" 

"There's  no  fixed  rule,  Babs.  You  must  judge 
your  man,  that's  all." 

"Kevin,  you're  queer!" 

"Not  sure  if  you  like  me,  eh?" 

"Oh,  but  I  do!"  swiftly.  Then  she  bit  her  lip. 
"I'm  sure  we  shall  be  jolly  good  friends  when  we 
know  each  other  better." 


BROKEN    CHINA  103 

"My  reply  in  the  style  of  the  Young  Ladies' 
Curriculum  is — garn!     Your  hand  again,  Barbara." 

She  complied — her  predicament  left  her  no  choice, 
alone  with  a  madman  on  the  Dead  Kings'  Burial- 
ground. 

"Now — shall  I  shake  it  in  comradeship  or  kiss  it 
in  homage?" 

"Kiss  it,  please,"  said  Barbara,  after  due  delibera- 
tion. 

I  was  glad  to  bend  quickly,  and  hide  the  irre- 
pressible smile,  which  was  sheer  enjoyment  of  an 
honest,  clean-minded  hoyden  in  the  process  of  becom- 
ing a  dishonest  and  adorable  woman. 

"Look  at  the  sun,"  Barbara  exclaimed  suddenly 
— "it's  late.     Race  you  home  as  far  as  Wine  Cove!" 

I  only  just  beat  her.  She  ran  as  girls  with  brothers 
are  trained  to  run,  fleetly  and  sparing  of  breath  and 
without  bagging  or  sagging  in  all  directions.  But  the 
western  blaze  was  in  our  eyes,  and  the  gold-dyed  pools 
and  puddles  swam  wavering  in  our  path — we  were 
soaked  in  saltwater,  scratched  and  hot  and  our  knees 
sand-plastered,  before  we  reached  the  white  road  that 
writhed  inland  and  uphill  amongst  the  hummocks 
sown  with  strong  rushes  that  flogged  the  bare  legs; 
till,  robed  and  crowned  in  that  sublime  messiness  of 
the  seashore,  which  is  never  to  be  confounded  with 
the  earthier  term  of  "grubby,"  the  newly  elected 
monarchs  of  the  Cornish  kingdom  plunged  shouting 
into  the  kitchen  of  The  Shoe. 


104  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

[4] 

After  supper,  Micky  challenged  me  to  a  game  of 
Polish  bezique. 

"It's  not  a  game  we  play  at  the  Club,"  I  rejoined 
loftily — for  I  was  a  bit  nervous  of  Micky,  and  had 
to  summon  up  a  mythical  club  or  two  as  props  to 
my  self-esteem.  "What  about  a  round  or  two  of 
Auction?" 

"Are  you  a  good  player?"  Micky,  in  his  turn, 
showed  signs  of  nervousness. 

"The  Nicaraguan  plenipotentiary  was  kind  enough 
to  say  that  if  he  could  have  had  a  few  lessons  from 
me  before  his  famous  encounter  with  the  bridge 
champion  of  Montenegro,  the  borough  of  East  Ken- 
sington would  not  have  been  lost  to  the  Gonversative 
party." 

Micky  wisely  decided  to  stick  to  Polish  bezique. 
It  was  one  of  those  horribly  easy  games  that  some- 
how the  enlightened  mind  refuses  to  grasp.  In  fact, 
Micky  won.  His  behaviour,  at  the  final  victory,  had 
not  that  repose  which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de 
Vere.  He  flung  himself,  burbling  and  chortling,  on 
the  ground,  wholly  small  boy,  his  cheeks  pink  with 
delight,  his  hair  in  a  triumphant  crest,  his  heels 
ecstatically  beaten  together.  I  restrained  myself 
with  difficulty  from  raising  him  on  to  my  knee  with 
an  aff'ectionate  kiss. 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!  I've  whacked  the  champion  player 
of   his   Club!     What   price  the   great  Lord   Kevin 


BROKEN   CHINA  105 

Somers  and  his  bridge  now?  Hurrah!  Ned,  I've 
won!  Babs,  mummy — I've  won  by  370  points — 
What  would  they  say  to  that  at  the  club?" 

"Well,  naturally  at  the  Club  we  never  know  who 
has  won  or  lost;  it's  not  considered  decent  form 
to  let  one's  manner  betray  emotion  one  way  or  another. 
But  thanks  for  a  very  good  game,  Micky.  ..." 

Micky  had  become  silent  and  thoughtful,  and  his 
legs  ceased  to  waggle.  The  following  evening  he 
again  approached  me,  with  demeanour  planed  down 
to  the  level  of  careful  indifference. 

"I'll  be  delighted  to  give  you  your  revenge — if 
you  care  about  it,  of  course." 

I  did  care  about  it  immensely.  Micky's  altered 
manners  were  a  dream.  My  exclusive  and  non- 
existent Club  would  have  elected  him  to  membership 
without  a  murmur.  When  the  final  reckoning  proved 
him  again  the  winner,  he  said  nonchalantly,  without 
a  trace  of  his  former  elation — "I  had  all  the  luck,  I'm 
afraid.  You  held  rotten  cards — ^no  one  could  do  any- 
thing with  them.     Thanks  for  a  very  good  game." 

"On  the  contrary,  thank  your  not  to  be  outdone 
in  excellence  of  breeding.  And  my  opponent,  with 
a  laconic  nod  to  me,  answered  his  mother's  fourteenth 
frenzied  call  sty-wards  and  bed-wards. 

"I  worship  and  adore  your  youngest  son,"  I  in- 
formed Kate,  when  she  returned  to  the  kitchen  and 
claimed  me  for  a  last  stroll. 

She  twinkled  comprehensively — "I'm  afraid  I  do 
too.     I'm  a  wicked  mother  to  show  favouritism.     He 


106  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

told  me  just  now — 'I  did  want  him  to  win  this  game, 
mums,  as  I  came  off  best  last  night,  but  all  the  picture 
cards  happened  to  fall  my  way;  and,  of  course,  I 
couldn't  insult  him  by  giving  him  the  game!'  What 
have  you  done  to  him,  Kevin?  Is  he  always  going  to 
be  like  this?  I  don't  think  I  can  live  up  to  it,  and  I'm 
sure  Henry  can't." 

"When  two  men  of  the  world  get  together,  their 
intercourse  is  bound  to  conform  to  a  certain  unspoken 
code;  but  Micky  doesn't  realize  how  near  he  came  to 
being  embraced  today " 

"Barbara  does,"  brusquely  from  my  hostess. 

I  smoked  on  in  obstinate  silence,  fully  aware  of 
Kate's  cheery  resolution  to  work  havoc  amongst  my 
reserves  and  Barbara's  confidences. 

"Listen  to  that  cricket.  .  .  ." 

"You  wouldn't  listen  to  any  crickets,  my  dear 
young  man,  if  you  had  to  listen  to  a  daughter  clamour- 
ing for  a  mother's  wise  and  prudent  supervision — 'he 
held  my  hand  for  a  minute  and  a  half,  mother.' 
'My  dear,  he  can  hold  your  foot  for  an  hour  and  a 
half  if  he  likes' — That  produced  fireworks! — I'll 
never  get  this  book  of  mine  finished,  Kevin,  never;  it's 
hopeless !  To  hear  her  educate  me  in  circumspection 
and  fierce  young  modesty!  ...  the  kind  that  keeps  a 
girl  at  home  with  her  mother  all  her  life  instead  of 
getting  married.  'I  wouldn't  bother  Kevin  with  all 
that,'  I  advised  her — 'It'll  put  him  off.'  " 

I  groaned  into  the  night — "For  the  Lord's  sake, 
K.  B.  Seton — listen  to  that  cricket." 


BROKEN   CHINA  107 

It  was  like  thrusting  a  small  twig  under  Niagara, 
to  divert  the  waterfall. 

"All  this  rumpus  was  while  we  were  making  the 
beds,  out  on  the  lawn  this  evening;  it  wasn't  my  turn 
to  make  'em,  and  I  may  as  well  inform  you  that  guests 
are  expected  to  do  their  share,  even  if  they  persist  in 
sleeping  in  a  frowsy  attic." 

"Yes.  I'll  do  them  tomorrow,"  meekly.  But  I 
really  could  not  consent  to  lay  myself  down  in  a  row 
with  Henry,  Ned,  and  Barbara. 

"  'You'll  be  sorry  if  I  go  headlong  to  the  devil!'  " 
- — and  I  grasped  that  my  companion  had  again  re- 
sumed quotation  from  the  recent  scene  with  her 
daughter — "  'Not  you,  my  dear,  you're  not  the  kind 
that  does!'  and  that  didn't  please  her,  either.  Oh,  but 
I'm  right  enough,  Kevin,  to  be  quite  tranquil  about 
Barbara.  Her  maternal  instinct  will  keep  her  out  of 
mischief.  Now  if  she'd  inherited  Henry's  decadent 
curiosities^ " 

I  professed  a  mighty  interest  in  Henry's  decadent 
curiosities.  It  was  my  private  opinion  that  he  had 
none;  but  anything  was  better  than  treating  the 
cloisters  of  Barbara's  soul  as  though  they  were  the 
Grand  Parade  at  Brighton.  Kate  burst  forth  again 
a  few  moments  later — and  I  informed  her  that  no 
bond  fide  navvy  would  act  as  she  had  manipulated 
him  in  her  last  book  but  one.  Her  indignant  justifi- 
cation of  the  navvy  brought  us  safely  across  the  last 
field  home. 

A  slender  and  beautifully-shaped  white  sleeping- 


108  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

suit,  carrying  a  candle,  was  darting  in  pursuit  of  a 
dumpy  blanket-bag,  that  waddled  comically  through 
the  murky  air  and  into  a  hedge;  a  clear  whoop — 
and  the  sleeping-suit  dipped  and  disappeared  after 
him;  and  only  a  pair  of  bats  wheeled  dismally  in 
their  stead.  ...     I  rubbed  my  eyes: 

"Midsummer  Eve!  .  .  .  are  those  flapping  things 
all  that's  left  to  us  of  Barbara  and  Ned?" 
And  Kate  Seton  chuckled  heartlessly: 
"As  long  as  Micky  isn't  translated " 

[5] 

I  cannot  account  for  this  odd  unrolling  of  time  and 
space  inimitably,  and  not  in  hard,  little  alternate 
blocks  of  day  and  night,  between  London  and  Porth- 
gollan;  between  the  group  of  Larry  and  Felicity  and 
Prue  and  the  first  Larry,  and  the  wholesome  pugnacity 
of  the  Setons  in  their  Shoe.  Until  after  the  final 
tragedy  of  Felicity  receiving  me  in  the  sprigged 
muslin  and  corals,  I  had  been  webbed  into  a  fantastic 
dream  played  out  among  real  and  matter-of-fact  sur- 
roundings. Now,  in  metamorphosis,  I  was  among 
people  wholly  real  and  matter-of-fact,  but  with  their 
bare,  brown  feet  sturdily  planted  in  a  dream  country, 
a  nursery-rhyme  village  .  .  .  light  glass-green  pools 
shadowed  with  fig!-purple  .  .  .  bad-tempered  grey 
seas  hurled  into  runnels  and  veins  of  white  against 
high,  bulging  rocks. 

The  Larry  conspiracy  dwindled  to  a  mere  speck  of 


BROKEN   CHINA  109 

horror.  And  every  little  daily  happening,  trivial  or 
absurd :  Lulu,  drunk  with  snails,  sowing  her  wild  oats 
in  the  com — Micky  and  his  game  of  Polish  bezique — 
Barbara  and  Ned  bolstering  each  other  into  a  ditch  by 
candlelight — the  absurd  struttings  of  a  swan  who 
lived  without  a  lake  or  any  visible  means  of  support, 
in  the  village — K.  B.  Seton  in  her  crimson  plush  tea- 
gown  raking  in  ducks  from  the  blind  pedlar,  bargain- 
ing for  butter  in  the  butcher's  rose-wreathed  porch, 
smuggling  in  fish  that  ought  to  have  been  dispatched 
to  London  before  it  ultimately  returned  to  Porth- 
gollan:  K.  B.  Seton  dragging  away  a  mournful  Henry 
from  perusal  of  "Getting  Married,"  in  order  to  air 
the  pillows  and  the  blanket-bags  and  the  striped  rugs 
— "I  don't  like  that  man  George  Shaw  for  you,  Henry 
— try  a  volume  of  Edna  Lyall  when  you've  finished 
your  job!"  All  these  trivial  daily  happenings  piled 
themselves  high  and  higher,  barricading  the  present 
from  a  past  in  which  all  happenings  had  been  huge 
and  sinister  and  out  of  scale. 

The  Setons  were  the  sort  of  family  who,  from  a 
divine  lack  of  imagination,  would  survive  all  circum- 
stances, and  never  succimib  to  them.  In  sheer 
arrogance  of  their  own  physical  hardness,  the 
younger  members  scuffled  joyously  all  day  long;  I  was 
presently  infected  by  the  pummelling  fashion,  and 
tossed  and  rolled  and  prodded  with  the  rest.  Bar- 
bara, who  in  her  moods  of  wakening  femininity  would 
not  suffer  me  to  lay  one  light  finger  on  her  arm,  joined 
as  unconsciously  as  any  boy  in  the  hilarious  medley 


no  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

of  limbs  and  laughter,  when  we  bathed,  and  explored, 
and  kicked  each  other  round  the  kitchen. 

But  the  Setons  had  a  habit  of  interlacing  their 
exuberance  with  periods  of  silent,  thoughtful  scrutiny, 
to  be  followed  by  a  disconcerting  summing-up  of 
impressions  in  which  the  possible  sensitiveness  of 
the  guest,  helpless  in  their  midst,  was  disregarded  with 
a  serene  brutality  that  I  have  never  since  encountered. 
This  habit  was  a  legacy  from  Kate  to  her  three 
children,  matching  their  deep-set  grey-'blue  gaze. 
Only  Henry  relieved  the  uneasiness  of  the  Setons 
observant,  by  his  amiable  brown  eyes  that  bulged 
slightly  and  missed  everything  essential.  I  learnt  to 
protect  myself  against  Kate  and  Ned  and  Barbara  by 
a  subtle  counter-attack  which  had  all  the  misleading 
appearances  of  boyish  candour;  but  our  golden-haired 
and  cherubic  Micky  was  a  veritable  demon,  and  the 
utmost  I  achieved  against  him  was  a  draw. 

But  never  could  it  be  said  of  the  Setons  that  they 
were  elusive,  or  dim,  or  fantastic,  or  in  any  way 
delicately  outlined.  The  Setons  were  a  fact — five 
facts  — labelled  Writing  Woman,  Decadent,  Maternal 
Instinct,  Pagan,  and  Psychic.  They  lived  in  a  Shoe, 
except  for  Psychic,  who  lived  in  a  sty ;  and  they  owned 
a  shiny  black  pig  called  Lulu,  who  crunched  snails; 
and  two  of  us  were  King  and  Queen  of  Cornwall, 
except  on  Sundays  when  we  went  to  the  chemists  to 
hear  the  muffin-bell  ring  for  sprats ;  and  we  bathed  so 
often  that  we  lost  count:  and  ate  thrice  a  day  and 
thrice  between  thrice — ^which  neither  Micky  nor  I 


BROKEN   CHINA  111 

could  work  out  in  a  satisfactory  multiplication  sum; 
and  the  weather  scuttled  to  a  change  every  hour,  so 
that  optimists  could  affirm  that  the  black-swept  skies 
never  lasted  long  anyhow,  and  the  pessimists  grumhle 
at  the  capricious  duration  of  the  hour  blue-dabbled; 
and  after  a  ship  had  been  wrecked,  we  dived  for  coal, 
and  swam  against  tides  for  bobbing  driftwood,  and 
lugged  our  spoil  into  the  house  for  winter  firing — 
triumphant  with  the  sense  of  having  wrested  gain 
from  rocks  and  water  and  earth  themselves,  instead  of 
paying  in  coin,  which  is  a  tame  and  foolish  means  of 
attainment.  Sometimes  we  found  more  than  drift- 
wood— queer,  clean  objects,  white  and  bleaching,  in  a 
fairy  pool — and  they  were  bones  ("said  the  old  bold 
mate  of  Henry  Morgan!").  And  there  was  once 
upon  a  time  an  old  squire  of  the  neighbourhood — 
really  a  Farmer  Old  who  married  a  Miss  Squire  .  .  . 
thus  things  are  tweaked  out  of  shape  in  Porthgollan! 
— and  he  found  Barbara  and  myself  sprawling  deep 
in  sorrel  and  clover,  and  hobbled  around  us  poking 
us  absurdly  with  his  stick  and  muttering.  "I  did  think 
as  ee  were  sheep,  as  ee  were  sheep,  as  ee  were  sheep. 
.  .  .  Hev  ee  seen  a  couple  o'  turkeys  pass  along?" 
Nursery-rhymes  and  Hans  Andersen  and  a  smug- 
glers' shore.  .  .  .  We  were  entirely  happy,  the 
Setons  and  I. 

"I've  thought  of  something  jolly  to  do!"  exclaimed 
Ned,  at  breakfast. 

Barbara  and  Micky  and  I   exchanged  mournful 


112  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

looks — then  clasped  hands  and  bade  each  other  good- 
bye. 

"Yes,  my  son,  tell  us!"  Kate  encouraged  Ned  in 
suicide  and  murder,  on  the  grounds  that  she  liked  her 
boys  to  be  healthy -minded. 

"I  believe  we  could  toboggan  down  the  steeper 
sand-hills ;  anyway,  I'll  rig  up  a  board  and  we'll  have 
a  try." 

"Here's  Eye-solda!"  Micky  spied  the  gallant 
post-girl  with  the  leather  satchel  cycling  up  the  field- 
path  towards  the  house.  She  entered  with  her  usual 
air  of  bringing  the  good  news  from  Ghent  to  Aix; 
flung  down  the  letters  plus  a  few  chaffing  remarks  to 
Henry,  whose  favourite  she  was,  and  pedalled 
furiously  off. 

I  was  glad  when,  as  today,  there  were  no  letters 
for  me — sharp  little  cries  from  the  distance,  piercing 
the  atmosphere  of  thick,  healing  peace  in  which  I  was 
miraculously  encased. 

"D'you  ever  get  any  briefs,  Kevin?"  asked  Micky. 

"Thousands.  The  office  boy  makes  boats  out  of 
'em  when  they're  the  right  sort  of  paper."  And  in- 
deed, I  had  received  two  briefs  in  the  past  year.  .  .  . 

Kate  Seton  looked  up  from  her  correspondence  to 
say:  "Babs,  Larry  Munro  is  coming!" 

[6] 

And  Barbara  dropped  a  hot  splitter,  and  cried 
joyfully:  "Oh,  Mums— when?" 

"Where's  he  to  sleep?"  carolled  Micky. 


BROKEN    CHINA  113 

"On  Saturday,  he  writes — what's  today?  Tues- 
day? I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  darling — I  never  know 
where  anybody  is  to  sleep  till  I  see  how  long  and  how 
wide  and  how  particular  they  are.  Kevin,  this  is  a 
young  man  who  has  lost  his  head  over  my  books,  and 
written  me  charming  letters  to  say  so.  I'd  rather  my 
husband  had  explained  this  to  you,  beaming  witn 
pride,  while  I  modestly  tried  to  stop  him,  but  he's  as 
usual  knee-deep  in  'Androcles  and  the  Lion.' — So  I 
wrote  back  suggesting  to  him  that  he  should  come 
down  to  PorthgoUan  for  a  holiday  to  make  my 
acquaintance — and  be  surprised  how  young  I  was, 
and  how  pretty.  .  .  .  After  a  long  pause  he  has 
suddenly  decided  that  he  will.  Babs,  go  on  with  your 
breakfast,  and  try  to  look  as  if  young  men  happened 
to  you  every  day;  you  may  not  be  his  style  at  all — 
evidently  he  prefers  elderly  women!" 

Henry  shut  Androcles  with  a  bang.  "I  don't 
wish  to  be  consulted.  I  hold  that  the  happiest  person 
in  a  household  is  the  cypher.  My  dear  Kate,  my 
dear  Barbara,  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  let  my  opinion 
influence  you  in  the  slightest.  But  I  do  not  think 
these — these  stray  strangers  ought  to  be  encouraged  to 
come  and  make  a  home  amongst  us." 

"Oh,  daddy,  it  isn't  as  bad  as  that!" 

"I've  never  heard  such  narrow-minded  rubbish  in 
all  my  life,  Henry.  What  would  George  Shaw  say  if 
he  could  hear  you?" 

"May  we  only  get  to  know  people  we  know 
already?"     Micky's  bit  of  a  nose  was  tilted  to  an 


114  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

angle  of  such  impertinent  innocence,  as  ought  to  have 
brought  a  fist  crashing  down  upon  it. 

Henry  Seton,  ahnost  extinguished,  murmured: 
"He  might  be  a  coster." 

"I  can  reassure  you  about  that,  sir,"  I  laughed — 
"I  know  Larry  Munro — yes,  isn't  it  queer? — Oh, 
quite  intimately;  we  lived  next  door  and  went  to  the 
same  school!"  and  I  laughed  again — ^at  this  beauti- 
fully inadequate  rendering  of  my  relations  with 
Larry.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  I  who  lent  him 
two  of  your  books!" 

"Then  did  you  know  all  the  time  he  was  coming 
here?" 

"No." 

"What's  he  like?"     The  chorus  went  up. 

I  began  to  praise  Larry,  hectically.  The  effusion 
jarred  in  my  own  ears  ...  it  sounded  so  unnaturally 
generous,  as  though  I  were  trying  to  gain  favour  by 
unconsciously  revealing  myself  the  blatant  sort  of 
good  fellow  who  has  always  a  fund  of  enthusiasm  in 
stock  when  a  pal  is  mentioned.  But  had  I  not  praised 
Larry,  what  would  I  have  said  of  him?  And  some 
perverse  solo  in  my  brain,  thrumming  against  the 
whole  discordant  orchestra  of  jhatei,  wanted  these 
Setons  to  appreciate  the  fact  that  my  friend  Larry 
Munro  claimed  attention  as  something  vivid  and  finely 
modelled,  and  rather  rare.  .  .  . 

If  I  could  have  been  silent — but  there  was  no  chance 
of  it  under  pressure  of  the  eager  curiosity  of  Barbara, 
and  Ned,  and  Micky. 


BROKEN   CHINA  115 

"Is  he  a  sport?" 

"He  sounds  fascinating  from  your  description." 
This  was  Barbara. 

"Is  he  good-looking?" 

"Does  he  swank?" 

"Will  he  mind  ragging?" 

"Can  he  dance?" 

"Who  cares — can  he  swim?" 

"Does  he  hate  girls?" 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Babs — you  do  ask  the  most  idiotic 
questions!     I  want  to  know " 

"/  want  to  know,"  from  Kate  Seton — "and 
Mr.  Munro  being  my  special  visitor,  I'd  like  you 
children  to  be  quiet  for  half  a  moment — whether  he's 
a  good  trencher-man,  in  which  case  we'll  kill 
Lulu—" 

"Mums!!!" 

"And  whether  he's  moderately  intelligent? — of 
course  he  is,  as  he  likes  my  books — and  whether  there 
is  a  twinkle  in  his  eye? — I  can't  stand  solemn  people 
— and  what's  his  private  sorrow,  and  his  inherited 
vice,  and  his  confidential  history,  and  his  hidden 
depravity,  and  do  you  consider,  Kevin,  between 
ourselves,  that  he  has  the  paternal  instinct?" 

I  smiled  at  the  rapacious  lady,  and  answered 
simply,  "Yes,  he  has  an  excellent  appetite.  Let  us 
sacrifice  Lulu." 

I  lay  on  the  bank  of  a  field  adjoining  the  garden  of 
The  Shoe.     I  lay  in  a  tangle  of  sweet-smelling  grasses 


116  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

and  weeds,  with  warm,  wet  honey-suckle  weighing 
down  a  hedge  above  me  in  great  splashes  of  thick 
cream,  and  gold-dusty  fawn,  and  flesh  colour;  I  lay 
there — and  hated  Larry.  .  .  . 

These  attacks  of  mine  frightened  me  by  their 
intensity;  with  each  recurrence  they  waxed  more 
savage  and  corrosive — further  beyond  my  control. 

You  must  not  allow  yourself  to  feel  like  this^-you 
must  not  .  .  .  for  your  own  sake.  Larry  is  coming 
down  here?  Well,  what  of  it?  Need  it  matter  to 
you?     Yes,  but — but 

Why  cant  he  leave  me  alone? 

Honey-suckle  and  clover  field  and  belt  of  dark  blue 
sea  swirled  into  stammering  black.  .  .  .  Leave  me 
alone,  Larry — I  came  here  to  get  rid  of  you — ^to  get 
away  from  you — not  to  hear  you  or  see  you.  This  is 
my  fortress — my  friends — they  like  me  .  .  .  they'll 
like  you  better — I  shall  be  forced  to  watch  it  happen. 
...  Or  I  can  go.  .  .  .  Damn  you.  .  .  .  Why 
should  I  be  driven  out — pressed  out — by  you?  It's 
all  done  on  purpose.  You  beast!  You  beast!  and 
I  was  beginning  to  forget.  .  .  . 

[7] 

Micky  dropped  over  the  nearest  gate,  looked 
around  him,  and  espying  me,  saimtered  along  to  my 
side. 

"I've  been  on  the  hunt  for  you." 

I  uttered  no  word  of  welcome,  and  wished  I  had 


BROKEN   CHINA  117 

betaken  my  surliness  to  a  remoter  spot.  The  boy 
curled  himself  up  against  the  bank,  snuggled  his  head 
down  on  his  arms.  His  eyes  glinted  at  me  sideways 
.  .  .  they  were  extraordinarily  blue  and  bad  this 
morning.  He  matched  my  sombre  silence  with  a 
pregnant  one  of  his  own.     At  last — 

"You  don't  want  Larry  Munro  to  come  here." 

It  was  no  query,  but  an  assertion  delivered  with 
quiet  infallibility. 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  He's  an  awfully  decent  chap. 
We've  been  pals  for  years." 

"You  said  so  at  breakfast.  The  others  think 
you're  glad  he's  coming.  But  I  wasn't  sure.  I 
went  out  to  think  it  over.  I'm  sure  now.  I've  got 
you  sized  up  and  squeezed  up,  and  put  away  in  a  box 
and  ticketed,  every  bit  of  you." 

"P-some  p-sycholog|ist,^'  I  teased  him — feeling 
fairly  helpless,  notwithstanding.  "You're  a  young 
ass,  Micky — I  really  am  keen  on  Larry." 

"Oh  yes,  you  like  him  all  right.  But  you  don't 
want  him  here.  You  like  him  in  a  funny  sort  of  way. 
It  will  be  interesting  to  watch  you  together." 

Micky's  metaphorical  legs  were  waggling  proudly 
in  the  air.  He  was  not  a  fourteen-year-old  boy  at  the 
moment,  but  a  fiendish  little  gnome,  with  the  long 
grey  beard  of  experience,  and  the  twinkle  of  a  soulless 
other  world  in  all  he  said.  To  shatter  the  illusion, 
I  forced  myself  to  remember  a  certain  photograph  of 
a  school  group  in  which  Micky,  Captain  of  his  Eleven, 
lolled  back  at  his  lordly  ease  in  a  deck  chair,  while 


118  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

his  ten  companions,  of  whom  he  was  the  smallest  and 
chubbiest,  sat  meekly  about  on  the  grass.  This  more 
commonplace  presentment  of  Micky  gave  me  confi- 
dence. 

"I  say,  I  wonder  if  you'd  mind  fetching  my  pipe? 
It's  amongst  the  pottery  on  the  dresser,  I  think." 

"Right-o,"  courteously  Micky  rose  and  set  out  for 
the  house. 

"And,  Micky,"  I  called  out — he  turned,  "when 
you've  fetched  it " 

"Yes?" 

"Don't  fag  to  bring  it  back  here." 

He  understood,  but  he  did  not  grin  or  fling  me  a 
rude  tu  quoque ;  the  dignified  set  of  his  back  as  he  dis- 
appeared over  the  gate,  revealed  plainly  his  state  of 
mind.  I  was  a  brute  to  have  hurt  Micky — but  I 
was  never  a  brute  till  the  old  kick  at  the  heels,  and 
joggle  at  the  elbows  made  itself  felt — it  was  Larry's 
fault — Larry — Larry  Munro  always.  .  .  .  Oh, 
curse  him! 

Only  this  time  I  had  done  it  myself,  enflaming  the 
bitterness  .  .  .  fool,  idiot,  dolt,  why  did  you  ever 
lend  him  those  books?  Why,  after  your  years  of 
vigilance,  quick  to  destroy  the  most  far-fetched 
possibility  of  admitting  Larry  into  the  ultimate  refuge 
where  you  hoped  to  escape  from  him  in  any  crisis  of 
sick- weariness.  .  .  . 

And  the  crisis  had  come,  and  the  refuge,  and 
immunity.  And  this  was  Tuesday,  and  he  was 
coming  on  Saturday  .  .  .  because  I  had  lent  him  a 


BROKEN   CHINA  119 

couple  of  books.  ''You  did  it  yourself!  Yah!  yah! 
yah!  did  it  yourself!"  ...  If  only  I  could  have 
strangled  my  screeching,  scoffing  ego! 

"Ahoy,  Babs — I  want  you — quick!"  it  was  Ned 
calling  from  his  tool-shed  in  the  garden. 

"Wait  a  sec!"  clear  and  distant. 

"Can't!" 

"Right!"  the  pad  of  her  feet  made  no  sound  on 
the  grass,  but  it  was  barely  half  a  minute  later  that  I 
heard  him  say,  "Put  your  hand  here — no,  here.  Yes, 
of  course  it's  the  toboggan — did  you  think  it  was  a 
shoe-horn?" 

Barbara's  reply  was  quenched  in  the  monotonous 
journey  of  the  saw  backwards  and  forwards. 

"I  say — was  that  your  thumb?" 

"No  .  .  .  it's  all  right." 

"Sorry.     Can  you  hold  on?" 

"Yes,"  gallantly.  And  the  drowsy  sawing  re- 
commenced. 

"...  I  want  a  girl  who'd  be  idiotic  and  intolerant 
with  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  girl!  how  she'd  pick  up 
sticks  in  a  wood,  and  help  a  fellow  get  a  fire 
burning  under  a  gipsy  tripod.  .  .  ." 

It  was  not  Ned  speaking  now,  but  Larry  .  .  .  and 
my  numb  senses  had  started  awake  to  recognition 
at  last.  .  .  .  Barbara — Barbara  was  two  dream- 
girls  materialized  into  one.  Larry's  mate,  who 
would  help  him  light  his  gipsy  fire — ^had  she  not 


120  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

just  borne  uncomplainingly  her  brother's  clumsy  saw 
across  her  thumb?  .  .  .  Larry's  girl,  young  as  tree- 
buds  in  February;  and  she  was  also  the  girl 
predestined  to  our  rivalry,'  whom  my  instinct  had 
foretold  years  and  years  ago,  when  on  the  floor  of 
Felicity's  drawing-room,  two  small  boys  had  fought 
over  an  entirely  unimportant  Hon.  Nina. 

Then — did  I  love  Barbara,  whom  Larry  was  to 
love?  .  .  .  What  else  had  been  the  powerful  en- 
chantment of  this  holiday?  I  had  come  in  pain  be- 
yond the  healing  of  mere  change  or  place  or  event;  be- 
yond Setons  and  nursery  rhymes  and  sea-dip,  for 
all  my  pretence  that  these  had  wrought  the  warlock 
f orgetfulness  of  yet  a  third  Larry.  .  .  . 

Barbara  .  .  .  child-mouth  which  I  had  not  dared 
to  kiss,  and  soul  the  most  clear  and  honest  of  any  in 
the  world.  .  .  .  Barbara,  who  could  romp  like  a  boy 
and  flush  petal  crimson  like  a  shy  girl;  whose 
impulse  ran,  without  a  single  loop,  towards  truth,  as 
a  straight  white  road  with  one  lonely  dwelling-house 
at  the  end  of  it.  .  .  .  No  doubt  but  that  I  loved  Bar- 
bara— and  that  Larry  would  love  Barbara — and  that 
Barbara 

No  doubt  of  it.  The  gibing  conspiracy  was  work- 
ing itself  out  nicely. 

But  how  furiously  she  would  repudiate  Larry  if 
she  knew  of  his  seven  years'  infatuation  and  thraldom 
to  Felicity,  my  mother!  Barbara  was  of  that  type 
most  ruthless,  most  terrible  in  condemnation,  when 


BROKEN   CHINA  121 

faced  by  a  story  that  could  not  quite  be  faced.  Bar- 
bara was  the  normal  schoolgirl  who  judged  darkness 
fearlessly,  because  she  lived  in  the  clear  light.  We 
who  have  learned  tolerance  are  merely  blinking  side- 
ways into  the  shadows  where  our  own  kinks  and  way- 
wardness, adjustments,  transgressions,  lie  submerged. 

Especially  in  matters  of  sex,  of  which  she  was 
wholly  and  gloriously  ignorant,  would  Barbara  be 
most  severe. 

If  she  were  told  about  Larry.  .  .  . 

How  should  she  be  told?  Larry  himself  would 
not  be  likely  to  make  confession — abstaining  not  from 
deliberate  deceit,  but  a  certain  wanton  loss  of  memory 
where  it  pleased  him  to  forget.  And  nobody  else 
could  tell  her. 

Oh  ...  /  could  tell  her,  of  course. 

For  the  second  time  that  morning,  I  laughed — but 
with  a  sardonic  grimace  towards  the  suave  Com- 
spirator  who  had  not  been  quite  humane  enough  to 
make  me  a  cad. 

The  dinner-bell,  chiming  faintly  over  the  honey- 
suckle, found  me  still  wrenching  up  green  things  from 
the  reluctant  mould  .  .  .  and  hating  Larry.  I 
hauled  myself  erect,  and  looked  down  at  the  mutilated 
havoc  of  bald  patches  and  splintered  stems,  torn  up 
star-blossoms  fading  in  the  sun,  grasses  crushed  flat 
and  limp  ...  it  seemed  as  though  I  ought  to 
apologize  — a  man  has  no  right  to  vent  his  temper  on 
the  kindly  earth. 


122  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

[8] 

Barbara  was  at  her  gayest  during  dinner,  too  guile- 
less to  conceal  her  exhilaration  at  the  prospect  of  yet 
another  flirtation  (well,  not  really  flirting!).  So 
it  was  true  what  she  had  vaguely  heard  and  dreamily 
anticipated,  that  young  men,  all  alive  and  kicking, 
were  legitimate  plunder  of  a  girl  grown-up.  One — 
yes,  certainly! — ^but  two  in  a  summer  were  unexpected 
bounty. 

Life  was  tremendously  jolly  and  exciting.  .  .  . 
So  much  I  read  in  Barbara's  radiant  demeanour. 
She  did  not  refer  to  her  thumb  bound  up  in  a  strip  of 
linen — a  sister  must  be  damaged  in  the  service  of 
brothers,  and  make  no  plaint. 

The  talk  of  Ned  and  Micky  was  all  of  the  toboggan, 
to  be  tested  that  afternoon.  Micky's  manner  to  me 
was  a  shade  cold.  I  was  sorrowful,  but  not  surprised. 
I  wished  I  had  not  off'ended  Micky.  Henry  stayed 
outside  for  the  meal,  refusing  to  leave  the  side  of  a 
sick  guinea-pig  who  was  also  a  prospective  mother; 
his  dinner  was  brought  to  him. 

As  for  me,  I  wondered  whereabouts  Larry  would 
sit  at  the  table,  and  if  in  ai  position  where  I  should 
see  his  face  every  time  I  looked  up  from  my 
plate. 

"I  say,  Kev,  where  have  you  been  all  the  morning? 
Did  you  bathe?" 

"No.  I'll  bathe  when  the  tide's  up  in  the  bay 
this  evening." 

"Aren't   you   going  to  toboggan  with  us?     We 


BROKEN    CHINA  123 

thought  of  whizzing  you  down  first  to  prepare  the 
slide,  as  you're  the  heaviest!" 

"I  don't  like  to  be  so  pampered,  Ned.  Make  me 
useful;  I  prefer  it." 

Micky  chuckled  .  .  .  and,  I  believe,  forgave  me. 

We  tried  all  the  lesser  slopes  and  hillocks  among 
the  dunes;  and  then  I  pointed  out  a  sandy  cliff  at  a 
steep  angle  from  the  bay: 

"That  looks  a  good  one!"  restless  at  the  unperilous 
thing  our  pastime  had  hitherto  proved. 

"M'  no,"  said  Ned,  to  my  astonishment.  Micky 
and  the  toboggan  were  sprawling  a  few  yards  apart 
on  the  shore  below,  he  in  the  attitude  of  a  tortoise 
turned  over  on  his  back  and  unable  to  recover  any 
other  equilibrium. 

"Why  not?"  Babs  ran  along  between  the  whip- 
ping grasses,  to  the  crest  of  my  suggested  slide,  and 
peered  over.  "Looks  a  bit  steep,"  carelessly,  as  I 
thudded  up  to  her. 

Her  tone  indicated  that  she  was  ready  to  applaud 
me  for  attempting  a  feat  on  which  even  Ned  had  put 
a  veto. 

"Board,  Micky!"  I  halloed. 

"No.  Are  you?"  in  a  faint  treble  from  the 
yellow-haired  tortoise. 

'  'We — want — the — ^toboggan — ^up — here ! "  Bar- 
bara called,  with  a  distinctness  that  purported  trouble 
for  her  young  brother. 

"Speak  to  it  kindly,  then.  Or  whistle  to  it,"  piped 
Micky.  i      , 


124  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

I  raised  my  eyebrows  towards  Ned,  who  promptly 
scrambled  down  by  the  quickest  route,  made  Micky 
swallow  a  handful  of  dry  and  unpleasant  seaweed 
encrusted  with  mussels — "for  his  cheek!"  and  re- 
turned, dragging  the  toboggan  behind  him. 

"Bet  you  can't  do  this!"  I  said  brutally — ^we  were 
none  of  us  at  our  best  that  afternoon.  Astride  of  the 
roughly-carved  plank,  I  launched  it  over  the  edge, 
with  its  nose  obliquely  pointed.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Kev,  had  you  better?" 

"He's  a  fool!"  gruffly  from  Ned. 

The  toboggan,  gaining  speed,  whizzed  rapidly  down 
a  natural  glide  of  smooth  shining  silver.  Tingling  to 
exhilaration  after  the  innumerable  bumps  and  stop- 
pages we  had  endured  in  our  former  experiences,  I 
caught  sight  of  Micky  erect  suddenly,  dancing  and 
gesticulating  like  a  frenzied  Dervish  almost  directly 
under  my  descending  swoop. 

I  could  not  be  certain  of  a  slow  finish — so  I 
shouted  him  a  warning  to  remove  himself.  .  .  . 
Then,  with  a  movement  of  the  foot,  slewed  round  on 
my  course,  struck  against  a  protruding  hummock  of 
grass — the  toboggan  darted  out  into  space  .  .  .  sun- 
stab  full  in  my  eyes- across  the  bay  .  .  .  was  that 
Micky  who  yelled  as  the  wildly  spiralling  beach 
sprang  up  and  hit  my  head  a  dull  heavy  bang?  .  .  . 
Dont,  Larry,  it  isn't  fair!  .  .  .  but  Larry  only  ans- 
wered: "The  train  is  in,  so  the  chemist  is  out!"  and 
went  on  padding  at  my  heels  down  the  passages  of 
Portland  prison,  banging  me  on  the  head  and  body 


BROKEN   CHINA  125 

with  a  bladder.  ...  I  glanced  over  my  shoulder 
in  running,  and  saw  that  he  was  in  Harlequin  costume 
— he  smiled  his  nice  crooked  smile  .  .  .  yes,  but 
you  can  run  faster  than  I,  because  you're  lighter — 
and  because  I'm  carrying  Lulu — how  did  the  rhyme 
go?  "Stole — a  pig — "  that's  it — "Stole  a  pig  and 
away  he  run;"  had  I  stolen  Lulu?  .  .  .  "away  he 
run"  .  .  .  there  was  something  wrong  about  that 
line — they  might  have  put  it  right  first.  .  .  .  But  he 
never  caught  up  with  me,  only  irritated  me  with  the 
persevering  kick  on  the  heels,  jolt  at  my  doubled 
elbows. 

.  .  .  Surely  we  must  come  to  the  end  of  it  soon — 
this  maze  of  passages  between  high  black  walls — they 
spread  quickly — before  I  could  spring  out  of  them, 
spread  till  they  covered  the  space  of  the  whole  world 
.  .  .  dead  world  .  .  .  Larry  and  I  shut  up  in  it 
alone — and  yet  not  enough  room  for  us.  ...  If  I 
could  meet  Wentworth  I'd  ask  him  to  supper  with 
Messalina.  .  .  .  Oh,  God,  let  me  meet  some  one! 
round  the  next  bend,  then,  or  the  next  .  .  .  feet 
usually  make  a  noise  if  one  stamps  them — not  on  sand 
.  .  .  glittering  silver  sand.  .  .  .  Larry,  leave  me 
alone!  leave  me — alone,  .  .  . 

Good,  here's  some  one  at  last — far  away — ^nearer 
— rushing  towards  me.  .  .  . 

— Only  Larry  again.  Then  there's  more  than  one 
Larry.  I  know  that — ^who  told  me?  Miss  Beech — 
Miss  Hilda  Beech.  .  ,  . 


126  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

"Tom,  Tom,  the  piper's  son, 
Stole  a  pig  and  away  he  run." 

There  is  something  wrong  with  it — George  Shaw 
wrote  it — let's  ask  George  Shaw.  .  .  .  Can  he  play 
Polish  bezique,  though?  Hurrah,  Ned,  I've  beaten 
the  great  George  Shaw — I  need  hardly  point  out,  my 
lord,  that  the  defendant,  by  admitting  this,  renders 
himself  entirely  ineligible.  .  .  . 

But  I'm  tired  of  high  black  walls  and  a  silver 
muffler  under  my  feet  and  grim  unechoing  silences. 
.  .  .  Hush,  that's  because  Larry  Munro  is  dying 
behind  one  of  the  walls.  Which?  The  next?  .  .  . 
Can't  I  lie  down  and  die  too?  I  could,  if  Larrikin 
weren't  looking  over  the  wall  at  me  .  .  .  such  a 
little  boy — how  did  he  get  up  there?  Felicity 
called  him  Humpty  dumpty.  .  .  .  Barbara  knows 
all  about  Felicity — ^then  the  fat's  in  the  fire.  The 
sheep's  in  the  meadow,  the  fat's  in  the  fire — 

My  dear  Larry,  you  must  blame  Micky  for  that. 
Yes,  but  I'm  so  tired,  am  I  never  to  sleep  indoors 
again.  Mummy?  Felicity  doesn't  like  me  to  call  her 
Mummy.  .  .  .  Who  said  I  can't  tell  Babs? — 
Babs! 

"Yes,  Kevin?" 

That  was  a  voice  not  Larry's  at  last.     I  stood  still, 
cautiously — had  he  gone?  .  .  . 
"Kevin." 
.  .  .     Very,  very  tired  after  all  that  running,  but 


BROKEN   CHINA  127 

so  glad  to  be  back  again  in  my  attic  at  the  Shoe,  with 
Barbara's  fingers  lightly  touching  my  forehead.  .  .  . 
I  did  not  even  want  to  open  my  eyes,  or  to  know  why 
I  was  in  bed,  nor  what  day  of  the  week  it  might  be. 

But  Larry  was  coming  on  Saturday. 

— Oh,  Larry  spoils  everything,  always.  I  had 
been  dreaming  about  Larry — gruesome  dreams,  he 
had  banged  me  with  a  bladder 

"Oh,  Mums,  he's  been  talking  such  a  lot  of  non- 


sense." 


661 


'Poor  fellow.     He's  quiet  enough  now." 

"Yes,  but  he  isn't  conscious;  I  spoke  to  him,  and 
he  never  moved." 

"Kevin!"  in  Kate  Seton's  pleasant  authoritative 
tones. 

But  it  was  too  much  work  to  respond.  I  just 
meditated  listlessly  on  the  nonsense  I  might  have 
talked,  with  Babs  listening.  Suppose — Suppose 
I  had  given  myself  away  in  my  hatred  of  Larry.  .  .  . 

"At  any  rate.  Dr.  Mackworth  is  bound  to  be  here 
by  nine — he  promised  me " 

Or  suppose — I  almost  started  upright  with  the 
thought,  but  an  incomprehensible  instinct  kept  me 
still  simulating  unconsciousness — suppose  in  delirium 
I  had  revealed  the  secret  of  Larry  and  Felicity — secret 
I  so  ached  for  Barbara  to  know — secret  which  would 
cause  her  to  hate  him  ...  as  I  did 

You  can't  tell  her.  No,  of  course  I  can't  .  .  .  but 
if  it  came  to  the  surface  like  froth  while  I  was  not 


128  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

responsible,  nobody  can  blame  me — I  couldn't  blame 
myself — for  that?  Barbara  said:  "He's  been  talk- 
ing a  lot  of  nonsense."  .  .  . 

" — No,  Mums — only  a  jumble  of  words  and  names 
and  bits,  and  once  he  recited  'Tom,  Tom,  the  piper's 
son'  " — I  heard  Barbara's  low,  clear  laugh — "Oh,  I 
oughtn't  to  laugh,  but  it  was  rather  funny,  and — and 
— he's  not  really  bad,  is  he,  Mumsie?" 

"No,  my  dear — only  a  slight  concussion,  I  should 
imagine.  But  we'll  hear  when  the  doctor  comes. 
Meanwhile  I'll  fetch " 

Disappointment  flowed  over  my  mind  and  swamped 
it  in  a  black  tide.  I  had  revealed  no  secret.  Babs 
would  certainly  have  told  her  mother,  here  and  now. 
Even  with  soul  and  body  wrenched  apart,  it  seemed 
I  could  not  do  myself  any  good  .  .  .  and  those  walls 
were  beginning  to  rise  again  out  of  the  sand. 

"Barbara." 

"Yes,  Kevin?"  Her  eagerness  rent  the  gauze 
wrappings  which  entwined  my  understanding. 

"Don't  let  Larry  bang  me  over  the  head  with  a 
bladder":  I  could  hear  my  voice  in  quite  lucid  appeal, 
but  had  no  more-  control  over  its  utteraces  than  over 
the  tick  of  clockwork  wound  up  to  go. 

"No,  of  course  not." 

The  attic  with  its  porthole  bracelet  of  dark  blue 
sea — my  hot  little  camp  bed — Bai'bara — slid  them- 
selves fantastically  into  the  recurring  nightmare  of 
walls  and  sand. 

"I  can  run  faster  than  you,  but  not  as  fast  as 


BROKEN    CHINA  129 

Larry,"  I  went  on.  And  wondered  with  some  curi- 
osity what  the  voice — my  voice — was  going  to  say 
after  that.     It  was  a  funny  sensation — not  at  all  bad. 

One  thing  that  I  must  not  say — not  now  that  I  was 
conscious — I  had  missed  my  chance — what  was  it? — 
Larry's  mistress  is  my  mother — ^Larry's  mother  is  my 
mistress 

That  was  me  laughing.  Well,  no  wonder!  Such 
a  comical  idea — I  and  Prue.  ...  So  I  went  on 
chuckling  quite  happily.  Bang — ^bang — the  bladder 
again,  on  the  back  of  my  head.  Larry,  as  usual, 
interfering  when  I  was  happy.  .  .  .  Not  fear 
now,  but  fury — choking  red  fury  obsessed  me.  .  .  . 
And  I  could,  I  could  have  my  revenge.  ...  I  had 
just  to  say,  "Larry's  mistress  is  my  mother." 

No,  no.  Felicity,  no,  darling.  ...  I  had  for- 
gotten that  it  would  hurt  you  too.  .  .  . 

Only — that  last  time  ...  I  knew  quite  well  that 
I  must  never  speak  it  aloud — but  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  heard  the  words — and  in  my  own  voice — ^that 
last  time.  .  .  . 

I  began  to  run  again,  stumbling  in  the  sand.  .  .  . 

[9] 

It  was,  as  Kate  Seton  had  prophesied,  only  a  very 
slight  concussion.  Within  three  days  I  was  walking, 
shakily  enough,  about  the  garden,  and  even  a  little 
way  across  the  clover  field  and  up  the  honey-suckle 
lane,  or  down  the  white  road  to  the  sea.  The  Setons 
were  cheery  and  off-hand  as  usual  in  their  surface 


130  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

treatment  of  me,  but  it  was  obvious,  never- 
theless, that  they  considered  I  had  saved  Micky's 
life  at  the  risk  of  my  own,  by  diverting  the  plunge  of 
the  toboggan  .  .  .  and  that  he  was  very  uncomfort- 
able about  it.  I  was  compelled  to  cheer  him  by 
privately  pointing  out  that  I  had  no  right  to  have 
attempted  that  particular  descent;  and  that  any  fatal 
results  to  him  of  my  f  oolhardiness  would  have  turned 
my  hair  white  in  a  single  night 

"You  see,"  Micky  explained  gratefully,  "I  was 
trying  to  warn  you,  when  I  jumped  about  and  shouted, 
that  you  would  have  to  leap  the  last  twelve  yards, 
because  the  slope  bit  inwards  suddenly,  where  you 
couldn't  see  it.  Of  course  I  was  an  ass  to  get  in  your 
way — but  it  never  struck  me  that  the  others  could 
lam  into  me  afterwards  that  the  service  of  a  lifetime 
wouldn't  addykuttly  repay  you." 

In  view  of  his  disgust  I  naturally  apologized. 
"I'm  more  sorry  than  I  can  addykuttly  express, 
Micky.  And — er — of  course  I  don't  claim  the 
service  of  your  lifetime.  In  fact,  it  looks  more  as 
though  you  could  claim  mine,  as  you  risked  your  life 


to  warn  me." 


"Oh,  that^s  all  right,"  said  Micky,  not  quite  sure 
from  which  angle  the  service-of-a-lifetime  obligation 
was  most  painful.  "I  say,  what's  up  with  Babs  and 
mother?  And  Ned  and  Pater  are  queer  too — it's 
about  this  Munro  chap  who's  coming  tomorrow.  But 
they  won't  tell  me  what." 

Neither  did  I  tell  him  what.     But  it  would  have 


BROKEN   CHINA  131 

been  blatantly  evident  to  me,  even  if  I  had  not  re- 
membered my  grotesque  period  of  semi-consciousness, 
that  the  Setons,  with  the  exception  of  Micky,  were 
now  aware  of  an  event  which  concerned  only  Larry 
Munro  and  my  mother,  Felicity  Somers. 

Unfortunately,  I  did  remember.  There  was  no 
reprieve  for  my  conscience,  self-condemned.  Miti- 
gating circumstances,  yes,  one  or  two  .  .  .  the  fever- 
ish aggravation  of  Larry's  trespass;  and  the  ensuing 
concussion  which  had  temporarily  sundered  control 
from  the  wish  to  the  speech. 

Nevertheless,  had  I  not  beforehand  desired  so 
madly  and  so  persistently  that  Barbara  should  know 
about  Larry  and  Felicity,  revelation  would  not  have 
occurred  during  that  pause,  when,  betwen  two  stages 
of  complete  delirium,  I  was  aware  of  my  inconsequent 
sayings,  though  unable  to  hinder  them.  And  besides 
.  .  .  why  had  I  all  the  time  feigned  unconsciousness 
had  it  not  been  with  some  sort  of  idea  .  .  .   ? 

Guilty!  The  mitigating  circumstances  carried  no 
weight  at  all.  They  might  be  left  out  as  far  as  I  was 
concerned.  Guilty.  .  .  .  And  now  I  could  no 
longer  and  never  again,  feel  injured  with  regard  to 
Larry — only  mean — oh,  horribly  mean.  Larry  him- 
self, with  all  his  tricks,  would  never  have  played  me 
such  a  trick  as  this.  .  .  . 

The  attitude  of  the  Setons  aided  my  scourging 
self-contempt.  Why,  with  the  sentiments  she  now 
held  towards  the  young  unknown,  Kate  should  not 
have   quite  simply   disposed   of  his  visit  by  some 


132  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

pretext,  written  or  wired,  I  cannot  tell.  She  probably- 
refrained  from  a  kindly  fear  that  such  a  procedure 
would  cause  me  to  guess  that  I,  in  delirium,  had 
unwittingly  damned  a  friend.  .  .  . 

For,  of  course,  I  was  not  informed  that  I  had  done 
any  such  thing — I  suppose  they  wanted  to  spare  such 
shock  and  subsequent  grief  to  my  noble  and  upright 
nature  and  gentleman's  sense  of  honour. 

"You  talked  a  pack  of  rubbish  and  nursery 
rhymes,"  Kate  answered  my  tentative  inquiry. 
"None  of  it  any  good  at  all  for  copy,  Fm  sorry  to 
say."  And  Barbara  also,  hectically,  and  without  her 
mother's  novelistic  touch  in  deception,  joked  with  me 
about  "Tom,  Tom,  the  piper's  son.  .  .  ." 

The  piper's  son  and  his  stolen  pig  were  a  plausible 
selection  from  a  sick  man's  ravings,  and  came  in 
very  useful. 

I,  it  was  equally  evident,  had  to  remain  serenely 
unaware,  unless  I  were  to  give  myself  away,  that  any 
information  had  leaked  out  to  alter  their  rejoicing 
over  the  hitherto  welcome  guest.  It  remains  a 
problem  unsolved  how  I  should  have  accounted  for 
this  sudden  raging  and  hostility,  had  I  been  as  sub- 
limely ignorant  of  my  treachery  as — Oh  God!  as 
I  would  like  to  have  been! 

It  was  a  highly  uncomfortable  situation  before  it 
even  started,  so  to  speak;  only  to  be  saved  by  super- 
discretion  on  the  part  of  Kate  Seton — super-finesse 
from  Barbara. 

And  these  were  not  their  distinguishing  qualities. 


BROKEN    CHINA  133 

Kate's  fetish  was  clean  manliness.  She  was  trying  to 
bring  up  her  boys  to  clean  manliness;  and  trusted  that 
Barbara,  by  marriage,  would  import  more  of  this 
desirable  element  into  the  home.  The  Larry-saga,  as 
she  first  received  it  compressed  into  one  phrase,  must 
have  sounded  harsh,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 

She  had  never  known  Felicity,  in  whose  presence 
the  ugliness  and  coarseness  surmised  in  the  story 
would  not  for  an  instant  have  been  suffered  to  dwell. 
She  had  never  heard  how  two  women  had  held  each 
other  close  over  the  body  and  the  memory  of  the  man 
they  had  both  loved;  nor  that  Felicity,  faithful  for 
seventeen  years,  had  only  been  still  faithfully  adher- 
ent to  the  same  ideal  when  she  met  Larry  Munro  for 
the  second  time;  neither  could  she  guess  how  help- 
lessly young  the  boy  had  been  when  his  macabre 
inheritance  encompassed  him;  nor  how  of  late  he  had 
rebelled,  and  brutally — but  with  clean  manliness — 
shaken  himself  free;  spells  and  spell-woman 
exchanged  for  the  quest  of  a  girl  like  Barbara. 

Had  K.  B.  Seton,  who  was  a  fine  novelist,  been 
aware  of  all  this,  Larry  might  not  have  had  to 
encounter  the  vehement  bigoted  dislike  of  which  my 
one  utterance  was  productive.  Kate,  at  least,  might 
have  been  mellowed  to  partial  understanding.  Never 
Barbara.  Barbara  was  obviously  making  no  allow- 
ances. To  her  frank  challenging  eyes.  Felicity  was 
just  a  fact. 

And  the  fault  was  mine — I  had  cheated  as  well  as 
betrayed — I  had  lied  as  well  as  cheated — ^there  was 


134  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

no  truth  in  the  stark  utterance  "Larry's  mistress  is 
my  mother.  .  .  ." 

That  sort  of  thing!  .  .  .  Barbara  had  heard  of  it 
thousands  of  times — only  it  happened  to  other  people, 
not  to  oneself,  ever.  To  her,  the  only  outstanding 
feature  of  this  thoroughly  commonplace  incident  was 
that  it  had  somehow  got  entangled  with  oneself  and 
one's  house,  and  even  with  one's  feelings  (Barbara 
had  been  dreaming  of  a  wonderful  Prince  Larry!) 
.  .  .  Horrid  fast  young  man  and  elderly  (horrid) 
siren.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was — horrid.  Barbara,  Ned,  and 
Kate,  with  Henry  to  help  in  the  background,  set  out 
with  the  zealous  determination  to  show  Master  Larry 
their  views  "on  that  sort  of  thing." 

I  was  only  surprised  that  Micky  had  not  been  told 
of  the  business.  But  Micky,  when  a  secret  was  in 
question,  evaded  open  statement,  preferred  to  prowl 
round  the  rim  of  things,  and  increase  the  prevailing 
uneasiness  a  hundredfold,  before  he  announced  with 
that  glint  of  sidelong  blue  between  upcurling  black 
lashes,  that  he  knew  all  about  it  now,  thanks! 

I  believe  the  Setons  would  have  been  disappointed 
had  Larry's  visit  been  deferred  or  cancelled.  Their 
antagonism  was  active  and  healthy  and  needed  a  live 
victim.  So  that  relief  mingled  with  scorn  when,  on 
Saturday  morning,  a  telegram  arrived  for  Mrs.  Seton: 
"Arriving  6.30,  St.  Catts  station,  slim  and  divinely 
handsome  in  grey — Larry  Munro." 

"He  must  be  conceited!"  Babs'  short  upper  lip 
curled  like  that  of  a  fictional  duchess. 


BROKEN   CHINA  135 

"Beastly  swanky  sort  of  chap,  telling  us  before- 
hand what  he's  going  to  wear — ^who  cares!"  This 
was  Ned. 

Then  Kate,  affixing  the  label,  "Extravagant — sign- 
ing both  names  to  a  telegram — Munro  alone  would 
have  done  quite  well." 

Finally  Henry's  contribution,  "My  opinion  is  of 
no  value  whatever,  and  you  need  not  assure  me  that  it 
is;  but  I  submit,  nevertheless,  that  the  young  man  must 
have  meant  a  portion  of  his  telegram  to  be  a 
joke." 

"Bravo,  Henry!"  I  murmured  inwardly.  The 
ridiculous  wire  had  made  me  smile,  and  yet  caused  a 
pang — ^the  sender  was  so  buoyantly  confident  of  his 
welcome. 

"Anyway,  who's  going  to  meet  him?"  demanded 
Micky,  lazily  letting  down  the  deck  chair  in  which 
Ned  sprawled. 

"Not  me!" 

"You  met  Kevin!" 

"Kevin  would  like  to  drive  in  to  meet  his  own 
friends,  though,"  a  little  flickering  smile  in  my 
direction. 

"Not  well  enough."  I  certainly  had  no  desire  to 
encounter  Larry  a  second  before  I  was  forced  to  it. 
"Besides,  I  didn't  invite  him." 

"Mums  invited  him.  Mums,  you've  got  to  drive 
into  St.  Catts  for  him." 

"With  three  buxom  children  and  a  husband — and 
I  a  decrepit  old  woman,  with  the  last  chapters  of  a 


136  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

book  to  write,  and  dinner  to  get?  No.  Certainly 
not.     Henry " 

Henry  gave  us  to  understand,  with  the  usual 
preamble  of  self-depreciation,  that  his  services  would 
certainly  be  required  in  attendance  on  the  favourite 
guinea-pig  this  very  day,  because 

"That  will  do,  Henry." 

"My  dear  Kate,  if  among  these  enlightened  young 
people  I  mayn't  mention  such  elemental  matters  as 
birth  and  death " 

"Death,  as  much  as  you  please,"  said  his  wife. 
"Your  guinea-pig  is  dying — is  that  it?" 

Henry  was  disposed  to  argue. 

"Anyway,"  Kate  cut  him  short,  "Ned  and 
Micky  are  driving  the  pony  into  St.  Catts  this  even- 
mg. 

"Ned  is  jolly  well  not  doing  anything  of  the  sort. 
I  can't  stand  this  Munro  rotter." 

"Why?  It  isn't  as  if  you  knew  him  yet," 
Barbara  made  a  conscientious  effort  to  play  up  to  the 
presence  of  Micky  and  myself. 

"No ;  but  you  know  whof  I  meanr — in  italics. 

Had  I  not  been  so  poignantly  involved,  it  would 
have  been  an  excellent  diverting  spectacle  to  watch  the 
Setons  in  the  process  of  manoeuvring  a  delicate  situa- 
tion. As  it  was,  though  I  loathed  the  necessity  for 
further  histrionics  on  my  part,  it  seemed  I  could  not 
let  pass  what  should  have  been  to  me  an  incompre- 
hensible condemnation  of  Larry,  without  evincing 
some  natural  astonishment.     I  evinced  it. 


BROKEN   CHINA  137 

Their  excuse  was  the  telegram.  Kate,  metaphori- 
cally, grabbed  at  the  telegram,  and  the  others  followed 
her  lead ;  .  .  .  they  had  been  prepared  to  like  their 
guest,  to  welcome  him  heartily,  till  he  had  "put  them 
off"  by  his  intolerable  message.  With  "Tom,  Tom, 
the  piper's  son,"  that  telegram  became  a  useful 
property  to  the  Setons. 

"Micky,  dear  old  boy,  dear  little  brother,"  coaxed 
Barbara,  "you  wanted  to  go  into  St.  Catts  anyhow  to 
get  that  oiled  silk  for  covering  the  model  aeroplane. 
The  station  is  on  your  way " 

But  Kate  interrupted  with  a  decisive:  "I'd  rather 
Micky  did  not  go." 

Followed  a  short,  wordless  contest  between  mother 
and  daughter,  in  which  the  latter  tried  to  communicate 
that  Micky,  not  in  the  secret  as  regards  Larry's  dis- 
creditable past,  could  have  no  valid  reason  for 
refusing  the  errand ;  while  Kate  retorted,  equally  with- 
out sound,  that  she  did  not  intend  exposing  her  cherub 
to  an  hour's  solitary  corruption. 

I  doubt  if  either  succeeded  as  I  did  in  interpreting 
the  other.  They  were  not  by  nature  fashioned  for 
speech  under  cover  of  silence. 

But  whether  silently  or  in  speech,  it  was  a  night- 
mare, incredible,  and  yet  dreadfully  familiar,  to 
listen  to  Larry  discussed,  Larry's  name,  here  in  Corn- 
wall, in  Porthgollan,  in  The  Shoe,  among  the  Setons, 
where,  because  I  had  set  up  sanctuary,  I  had  most 
dreaded  the  intrusion,  most  often  anticipated  it,  most 
strenuously  denied  the  possibility. 


138  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

"Thomas  shall  fetch  him  from  the  station,"  was 
the  conclusion  arrived  at.  Thomas  was  the  black- 
smith's son,  aged  eight,  whom  I  had  once  publicly 
miscalled  Tommy  and  had  been  publicly  reproved  by 
his  mother:  "Thomas,  ef  you  please — Tommy  du  be 
tu  old  fur  un  yet  awhile!" 

"Yes,  Thomas  can  drive  in  for  him."  They 
would  have  deputed  the  cat  to  do  so,  if  feasible. 

Larry  was  expected  about  half -past  seven  P.  M. 
Our  usual  supper  time  at  The  Shoe  meandered 
evasively  between  eight  and  nine  o'clock.  But  Mrs. 
Seton  said  quite  plausibly  that  Mr.  Munro  would  be 
hungry  from  his  long  drive  in  an  open  cart  through 
the  soaking  rain.  So  we  all  began  the  meal 
sharply  at  7.30  without  him. 

I  was  poignantly  aware  of  a  vacant  place  at  the 
table,  just  opposite  my  own. 

Also  of  atmospheric  conditions  at  ominous  high 
pressure. 

And  of  Barbara,  in  the  faded  grey-green  tatters 
from  which  she  had  declined  to  change,  but  with  her 
wontedly  tossed  and  straying  hair  wound  in  a  plait 
round  her  small  bronze  head,  which  in  its  revealed 
shapeliness,  was  conspicuously  Barbara's  "best 
point." 

The  soft  lines  of  her  throat  were  a  girl's 
insolent  challenge  to  an  unknown  woman  shadowed 
behind  an  unknown  man  ...  or  so  I  read  it. 

Steady  rain  drenching  the  stiff  ruts  of  the  lane  to 
a  smother  of  mud  that  would  prevent  us  from  hearing 


BROKEN   CHINA  139 

the  cart  from  the  station  draw  up  outside.  At  any 
moment.  .  .  .  Obstinate  in  refusal  to  let  Larry 
actually  as  well  as  symbolically  thrust  me  out,  I  now 
swore  at  myself  for  not  having  returned  to  London 
that  morning,  after  all. 

The  kitchen  door  opened  straight  on  to  the  path 
to  the  gate.  The  path,  also  spongy,  would  allow  no 
footstep  to  sound  upon  it. 

But  perhaps  the  click  of  the  gate.  .  .  . 

I  was  in  extreme  sympathy  with  the  electric  mood 
of  a  cat,  when  for  no  apparent  reason  save  nerves — 
which  of  course  the  cat  could  conquer  if  it  chose  not 
to  give  way — it  tears  madly  up  and  down  with  every 
separate  hair  stiff  and  tingling.  Such  exercise,  ex- 
pressive of  catastrophe,  must  be  tremendous  relief  to 
the  cat.  ... 

Was  that  wheels? 

My  unease  communicated  itself  to  Micky.  Though 
he  was  probably  the  only  outcast  from  secret  knowl- 
edge at  that  table — state  of  dewy  innocence  that  Kate, 
Henry,  Barbara  and  Ned  likewise  assigned  to  me! 
— yet  I  sensed  him  more  than  the  others  on  the  jump 
.  .  .  and  I  silently  conceded  to  his  proud  mother  that 
Micky  might  be  slightly  Psychic. 

In  addition  to  a  fine  salad  of  mixed  emotions,  I 
added  a  slice  of  anger  with  the  Setons  for  beginning 
supper  without  their  guest — I  remembered  how  Feli- 
city in  her  worst  hour  had  made  welcome  Miss  Beech 
and  Miss  Hilda  Beech. 

A  voice  from  the  lane  called:  "Whoa!" 


140  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

"You've  spoilt  your  entrance,  Larry,"  to  myself. 
For  all  the  Setons  had  heard,  and  were  staring  hard 
at  the  door. 

But  though  stock  effective,  it  was  not  such  a  bad 
entrance,  after  all.  Trust  Larry!  Door  flung  im- 
petuously open ;  and  silhouetted  against  a  background 
of  darkness  and  whimpering  rain  and  faint  goblin  out- 
line of  cart,  pony,  and  Thomas,  stood  a  slight  figure, 
cap  in  hand,  overcoat  sparkling  with  tiny  drops  in  the 
lamplight.  .  .  .     Oh,  not  at  all  bad! 

Then  only  it  occurred  to  me  that  my  presence 
there  must  be  sheer  surprise  to  Larry — Was  it?  I 
could  not  remember  the  chaos  of  events  succes- 
sively— 

"Hullo,  Kev!" 

Apparently  not.  Larry's  greeting  was  quite  cool 
and  self-possessed;  his  grin  irresistibly  friendly.  In 
spite  of  a  quick  memory  of  what  it  felt  like  when  a 
bladder  whacked  the  back  of  my  head,  I  calmly 
twinkled  back.  .  .  .     "Hullo,  Larry!" 

For  the  flash  of  a  second  it  seemed  astoundingly 
as  though  we  understood  one  another  down  to  the 
last  fraction  of  complexity,  and  were  allied  in  appre- 
ciation of  the  joke. 

Then  I  introduced  him. 

The  Setons  each  asserted  afterwards  that  they  took 
an  instant  dislike  to  the  personality  of  the  new-comer. 
Nor  could  I  argue  that  they  were  hardly  in  an  un- 
prejudiced frame  of  mind.  For  then — flushing  very 
red — ^they  would  have  retorted  that  they  knew  nothing 


BROKEN   CHINA  141 

beforehand what  indeed  could  they  know? — to 

the  detriment  of  Mr.  Miinro.  And  I,  shackled  to 
ignorance,  must  perforce  acknowledge  them  right, 
curse  my  delirium  (or  lack  of  it) — curse  Larry — a 
special  brand  for  Larry  as  usual! — curse  the  Setons 
— the  whole  idiot  set  of  complications.  .  .  . 

"It  was  when  he  took  off  his  coat  and  I  saw  his 
grey  suit,"  explained  Barbara,  "it  reminded  me  of  the 
telegram,  and  I  detest  a  dandy " 

Yes — that  was  it — it  reminded  all  of  them  of  the 
telegram.  (Thanks,  Babs,  for  the  cue!) — and  they 
all  detested  a  dandy  .  .  .  and  showed  it! 

But  Larry  had  come  prepared  to  be  liked;  and  for 
a  short  while  before  he  grasped  and  readjusted  his 
manners  to  hostility,  he  behaved  like  one  who  was 
confidently  prepared  to  be  liked.  In  superb  high 
spirits,  he  swung  forward  his  eager  intimacy  in  their 
direction,  instead  of  advancing  it  with  the  tentative 
demeanour  of  a  criminal — as,  of  course,  he  should 
have  done.  K.  B.  Seton,  to  whom  was  his  primary 
allegiance  paid,  covered  her  lack  of  cordiality  by  a 
brisk  attention  to  material  details: 

"Take  off  your  coat  and  hang  it  near  the  fire — 
you're  wet  through.  What  about  Thomas?  I  hope 
he  knows  that  we  want  the  cart  presently  to  take  Mr. 
Munro  and  his  luggage  to  Tremerrith?  Or — Ned 
you  can  drive  over  after  supper,  and  drop  Mr.  Munro, 
and  take  the  cart  back  to  the  'Red  Deer,'  can't  you? 
Tell  Thomas  he  needn't  wait,  and  give  him  sixpence; 
Micky,  take  Mr.  Munro  to  Kevin's  room  for  a  wash. 


142  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

I'm  sorry  we  can't  put  you  up  here,  but  this  is  a  very 
small  cottage,  and  we're  packed  as  it  is;  Tremerrith 
is  only  three  fields  away  and  a  bit  up  the  lane,  and 
Mrs.  Chubbe  will  be  sure  to  make  you  comfortable. 
You  come  here  for  all  your  meals,  of  course.  Which 
reminds  me  that  you  must  be  starving;  Babs — pie — 
oven — hurry  up!"  and  Kate  subtracted  herself  from 
futher  concern  with  the  arrival. 

The  alacrity  on  the  negative  side,  with  which  Ned, 
Micky,  and  Babs  obeyed  their  mother's  commands, 
may  have  accounted  for  Larry's  air  of  good-humoured 
conviction,  as  he  turned  to  me  an  hour  later  at  the  gate 
of  Tremerrith,  and  said:  "What  absolutely  abomi- 
nable children!" 

Ned  had  driven  Larry  round  by  the  road,  while  I 
walked  across  the  three  fields  and  met  the  cart  outside 
the  gate  of  Mrs.  Chubbe's  cottage. 

I  listened,  without  reply,  to  the  retreating  jangle  of 
the  cart. 

"That  boy — ^what's  his  name — Ned? — seems  to 
have  got  it  into  his  bumpkin  head  that  I'm  a  puny 
coward  type.  We  had  an  eerie  drive  through  black- 
ness and  rain  through  a  lane  with  ruts  like  mountains 
.  .  .  the  cart  climbed  'em  painfully  and  dropped 
splashing  into  the  pools  colleeted  either  side  .  .  . 
nearly  bumped  us  out  and  drowned  us  each  time. 
And  he  lashed  the  pony  like  a  madman;  I'd  have 
gracefully  alighted  and  walked  or  swum,  but  we  were 
surrounded,  back  and  front,  by  a  formal  procession 


BROKEN   CHINA  143 

of  muttering  bullocks — yes,  honestly,  Kev,  they  did 
mutter,  scowling  with  their  heads  down,  like  Socialist 
workmen  before  a  strike;  and  I  don't  see  why  I 
should  be  bullied  into  walking  arm-in-arm  with  a 
Socialist  bullock  through  two  feet  of  mud  and  two 
of  water — on  my  first  night  here." 

Ned,  infernal  young  scoundrel,  had  obviously 
brought  the  cart  through  a  carefully  selected  lane, 
instead  of  by  the  road. 

"He  hoped  to  see  you  behave  badly,"  I  explained 
briefly. 

"And  shriek:  '  Lemme  get  out — I'm  frightened'? 
— Yes,  I  grasped  that  was  his  fond  idea,  from  the  way 
he  kept  on  looking  at  me."  Larry  laughed,  and  threw 
his  boots  into  a  comer  of  the  room.  "It  was  deuced 
uncomfortable,  that's  all.  And  I  expect  the  rude 
little  schoolgirl  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  it's  about 
done  for  my  'elegance'  " ;  ruefully  holding  the  candle 
to  survey  himself. 

Barbara,  when  at  supper  he  signified  intention  of 
climbing  down  into  a  certain  precarious  blow-hole 
mentioned  by  Ned,  had  replied  scornfully:  "You'd 
better  stop  away  from  the  rocks  altogether,  or  you'll 
ruin  your  elegance — people  aren't  expected  to  wear 
those  sort  of  clothes  in  Cornwall,  you  know,"  anxious 
to  prove  herself  impervious  to  his  fascinations  from 
the  beginning,  and  to  make  him  well  acquainted  with 
the  fact. 

"As  it  happens,  I've  a  sweater  and  some  bags  in 


144  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

my  suit  case,"  Larry  answered  her  gently — "But 
people  aren't  expected  to  wear  those  sort  of  clothes 
on  a  journey,  you  know.     Or  didn't  you?" 

" — Rude  little  schoolgirl!  What's  her  hair  up 
for?     I'll  pull  it  down!" 

And  he  said  it  exactly  like  a  rude  little  schoolboy, 
sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  with  an  injured  air 
caressing  one  grey  silk  foot.  But  I  drew  no  comfort 
from  the  spurting  conflict;  it  was  merely  plain  that  the 
courtship  of  Larry  and  Barbara,  already  hotly  con- 
scious one  of  the  other,  was  to  be  conducted  on  lines 
of  a  very  juvenile  Katherine  and  Petruchio. 

By  the  evening  of  the  next  day  the  Setons  had 
conclusively  proved  to  Larry  that  their  treatment  of 
him  was  deliberate,  and  not  their  wonted  character- 
istic way  with  a  guest.  Their  method  of  proof  was 
my  punishment  for  spoiling  his  reception:  they 
exploited  me  sickeningly  as  their  own  good  boy — a 
lay  figure,  usefully  at  hand  to  emphasize  a  contrast. 
Barbara,  Ned,  and  Micky  ostentatiously  sought  my 
company  and  deferred  to  my  wishes;  Kate  pampered 
me  with  first  helpings  of  chicken-breast;  I  had  all  the 
privileges  of  "quite  one  of  the  family,"  mingled 
with  the  consideration  due  to  an  honoured  visitor. 
It  was  roses,  roses  all  the  way  and  myrtle  mixed  in 
my  path  like  mad — simply  damnable!  I  saw  Larry 
smile  once  or  twice  at  a  particularly  blatant  bit  of 
favouritism  pointedly  directed,  but  he  made  no  com- 
ment when  we  were  alone  together — a  rare  occurrence 
since  my  sudden  popularity.     There  was  no  escape 


BROKEN   CHINA  145 

from  a  ridiculous  predicament,  unless  by  confessing 
to  Barbara  that  I  had  not  been  as  unconscious  as 
she  believed  me  to  be  on  a  certain  occasion.  And 
indeed,  in  sheer  dislike  of  my  present  helplessness,  I 
might  have  so  exposed  myself  to  her  contempt,  had  it 
not  involved  that  Larry  should  hear  what  I  had 
done  for  him.  .  .  .  And  this  I  dreaded  more  than 
anything  else.  More  than  I  had  dreaded  his  arrival. 
More  than  I  dreaded  to  see  Barbara  in  his  arms — 

I  cannot  tell  why. 

My  attic  was  separated  by  only  a  board  partition 
from  the  bedroom  in  which  Kate  Seton  and  Bai'bara 
never  slept.  One  gusty  evening,  however,  they  were 
driven  from  their  garden  roosts  and  hammocks  to 
indoor  refuge — excepting  only  Micky,  who  first  pro- 
testingly,  and  then  miserably  resigned,  was  as  usual 
left  sternly  shelved  in  the  wind-blown,  rain-buffeted 
pig-sty,  without  even  the  solace  of  his  mother  mar- 
tyred in  the  bunk  below  him.  And  that  night  I  heard 
a  fragment  of  talk  between  Babs  and  her  mother — 

" — And  go  on  pretending  we  like  him,  or  that  we 
don't  know  things  about  him?  It's  not  straight.  I 
want  to  tell  him  right  out  that  he's  a  beast  and  ought 
to  be  ashamed  and  we  hate  him — ^Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"When  you're  a  woman  of  the  world,  Barbara  my 
dear,  you'll  learn  that  I  convey  more  reproof  by  an 
imperceptible  hint  of  coldness  in  my  manner " 

"But  it's  not  straight,^''  the  child's  voice  rang  out 
again,  passionate,  vehement.  "A  sort  of  fumbling. 
.  .  .     Oh,  I  don't  know.     But  I  shan't  be  able  to 


146  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

keep  myself  much  longer  from  having  it  out  with  him 
— and  it's  fairer  too!" 

"To  Larry.     But  to  Kevin?" 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  I  opened  my  door 
twice  and  banged  it  again,  to  warn  them  of  my  vicinity. 
I  smiled  at  Kate  Seton  deluding  herself  with  the 
notion  of  "imperceptible  hints,"  which  were  not  un- 
like a  volley  of  bricks  directed  at  Larry's  provocative 
head.  And  then  I  realized  Barbara's  threat:  "I 
shan't  be  able  to  keep  myself  much  longer  from  hav- 
ing it  out  with  him." 

Oh  Babs,  beloved  little  Babs,  how  I  should  like  to 
grip  you  by  the  shoulders,  and  shake  you,  and  shake 
you,  till  I  had  shaken  out  some  of  your  unsophisti- 
cated policy  of  justice  and  fairness,  your  exasperating 
shattering  certainty  that  all  matters  can  be  easily  ad- 
justed by  a  mere  act  of  "having  it  out,"  your  crude 
disregard  of  all  delicate  manners  and  tolerance  and 
convenience  and  tact.  .  .  .  Barbara,  maid  of 
honour  in  its  truest  sense — Barbara  whom  I  worship, 
tonight  I  could  well-nigh  murder  you  and  not  be  sorry, 
just  to  teach  you,  little  fool  Barbara,  to  think, 
to  be  sorry  and  kind  before  you  are  pure  and  scornful, 
to  forgive,  to  understand — and  to  mind  your  own 
business ! 

All  of  which  vindictive  denunciation  of  Barbara 
meant  that  my  own  burnt  and  blistered  conscience 
was  paining  me  to  frenzy. 

I  believe  that  Barbara  was  not  only  capable  of 
fulfilling  her  threat  to  "have  it  out"  with  Larry,  but 


BROKEN   CHINA  147 

that  she  was  incapable  of  refraining  from  it.  I  was 
able  to  ward  off  the  imminent  disclosure  by  prevent- 
ing Larry  and  Barbara  from  ever  being  a  minute 
alone  together — not  an  easy  task,  for  I  had  to  man- 
oeuvre without  apparent  purpose;  and  though  Barbara 
helped  me  by  pointed  distaste  for  Larry's  society, 
he  rather  sought  out  hers,  with  the  mocking  air  of 
being  perfectly  conversant  of  an  attitude  which 
afforded  him  immense  pleasure. 

Warfare  between  them,  formerly  intermittent,  was 
now  incessant;  they  were  at  it  sword  and  dagger, 
cudgel  and  quarter-staff;  Micky  and  Ned  backing 
up  their  sister;  Mrs.  Seton  unscrupulously  detaching 
herself  from  all  responsibility  towards  her  visitor; 
Henry  occasionally  strolling  into  the  fray  on  the 
side  of  his  offspring.  Larry,  solitary  and  dangerous, 
with  that  gentleness  upon  his  tongue,  and  that  yellow 
sparkle  in  his  faun's  eyes,  which  rendered  him  so 
vitally  attractive — Larry,  though  he  betrayed  no 
astonishment  at  the  surrounding  belligerence,  must 
surely  have  wondered  what  it  was  all  about,  and  why 
I  maintained  throughout  my  apparently  naive  and 
fatuous  position  of  neuter. 

Some  time  and  soon  there  was  bound  to  be  speech 
between  myself  and  Larry  .  .  .  significant,  dis- 
concerting speech ;  but  not  before  there  was  revelation 
between  Larry  and  Barbara — ^how  soon? 

Under  that  black  archway  of  rocks  high  as  the 
cliffs  .  .  .  that  was  where  I  had  caught  my  final 
glimpse     of     them:     Barbara     and     Larry,     tiny 


148  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

doll  figures,  grotesquely  a-swing  on  what  appeared 
to  be  a  smooth  surface,  till  they  dropped  from  sight 
down  a  seeming  abyss — I  was  tired  and  knew  I  could 
not  follow,  tired  of  keeping  pace  with  their  tireless 
scramble — they  must  not  be  left — not  a  moment, 
or  Barbara  would  "have  it  out"  with  Larry  ...  as 
she  was  having  it  out  with  him  now,  somewhere 
among  these  giant  crags  and  needles  on  the  island 
beyond  the  last  archway. 

I  gave  in.  The  rocks  had  been  inimical  to  me 
from  the  very  start  of  this  morning's  expedition. 
And  that  was  queer,  because  hitherto  I  had  felt  upon 
rocks  that  boundless  certainty  of  tread,  as  well  as  that 
sense  of  rest  and  home  and  all's  well,  which  is  wont 
mysteriously  grip  a  man  in  one  particular  element 
and  no  other — on  the  sea  or  upon  moors  or  else  in 
mountains.  Rocks  beneath  my  feet  brought  a  famil- 
iar sensation  of  suppleness  and  poise;  I  knew — just 
knew — not  uncannily  but  as  a  simple  matter  of  course, 
exactly  how  to  correct  a  slip  of  the  body  or  limb  by 
a  lightning  adjustment  to  any  unexpected  writhe  or 
jut  of  the  boulders.  I  could  cope,  laughing,  with  the 
fair  deception  of  an  apparently  outgoing  tide,  that 
was  in  reality  licking  up  a  strip  of  white  sand  round 
the  next  bend  and  behind  the  last  bend;  or  with  the 
veined  and  polished  serpentine,  fatal  in  its  almost 
invisible  cloak  of  slippery  weed.  I  recognized  the 
separate  perils  of  granite  rock  that  crumbled  at  a 
clutch;  of  slate  rock  that  broke  sharply,  cutting  the 
skin;  of  barnacle-rock,  that  offered  at  the  same  time 


BROKEN    CHINA  149 

safety  and  agony  to  the  clinging  soul.  There  was 
no  end  to  the  friendliness  of  the  Atlantic  shore  when 
once  it  had  adopted  you;  no  end  to  its  variety  show  of 
low-hooded  caves  with  swinging  green  floor;  caves  that 
might  be  swum  or  precariously  paddled,  till  a  sombre 
black  pool,  bottomless  and  untwinkling,  sent  you 
plunging  back  to  the  sun- watched  entrance;  quiet 
lagoons,  closing  to  a  meandering  creek  where  the 
rocks  bulged  to  a  roof  above  your  crouching  head; 
opening  again  to  a  chain  of  glittering  puddles,  purple 
and  pink  and  emerald ;  no  end  to  the  orchestral  music 
of  waters  fretting  plaintively  through  a  channel  too 
narrow  for  their  impetuous  entrance,  spitting  out  in 
dazzling  fury  from  a  hole  unsuspected;  hissing  down 
like  hail  from  their  own  tossed  height.  Yet  the  sea, 
and  its  sounds,  and  its  motley  draperies  of  weed  and 
shell,  and  its  darting  wriggling  shadow  population, 
was  to  me  only  an  accessory  of  its  own  wild  shore- 
boundaries  .  .  .  which  point  of  view  would  no  doubt 
cause  surprise  to  the  bom  sailor;  just  as  my  treatment 
of  moor  and  meadow  and  brown  earth  existing  as 
a  mere  wide  fringe  running  down  and  down  and 
down  till  it  met  that  strip  of  conflict  that  I  loved  best, 
would  be  a  novel  and  distasteful  aspect  of  the  case 
to  the  typical  landsman.  Sea  was  too  restless,  and 
knew  too  many  adherents.  Land  was  too  stolid,  and 
could  too  easily  be  divided  into  property.  But 
rock-territory,  in  its  unclaimed  loneliness,  the  end 
and  the  beginning  and  the  neither-nor;  the  very  rim 
of  island;  the  edge  of  the  map,  where  in  old  lesson 


150  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

days  the  paint-brush  dipped  in  cobalt  followed  so 
painfully  an  unmeaning  squiggle  of  scoop  and  head- 
land; rock-territory,  sturdy  and  undeniable  to  the 
memory  even  while  the  tide,  moon-ordered,  slipped 
over  it  and  submerged  it  wholly;  elusive  and 
phantasmagoric  to  the  sight  even  while  tfie  t^de, 
moon-ordered,  stripped  it  again  and  left  it  pale  and 
grey  and  slawered  in  night-black;  rock- territory,  all 
colours,  all  surprises,  all  promises;  rock-territory, 
like  a  fantastic  semi-frightening  dream  shaped  into 
visible  form;  rock-territory  was  mine;  and  on  it  I 
was  happy — till  now. 

But  today  the  rocks  had  changed  their  temper. 

Common  sense  urged  that  I  was  still  too  con- 
valescent to  have  attempted  such  a  strenuous  expedi- 
tion; and  that  the  humiliation  of  head  and  body 
submissive  to  rock-tyranny,  where  they  had  previously 
been  conquerors,  was  from  entirely  natural  causes. 
But  comlnon  sense  could  not  survive  the  spectacle  of 
Larry  and  Barbara  all  the  time  well  in  my  van,  call- 
ing to  me,  pausing  for  me;  taking  the  besetting 
obstacles  of  our  progress  with  so  careless  a  stride, 
with  such  an  unconsciously  flamboyant  exhibition 
of  their  nervous  young  strength,  that  I  was  driven 
to  wonder  if  my  own  increasing  difficulties  of  gid- 
diness and  uncertain  foothold  were  imagination;  to 
wonder,  irritably,  if  I  were  indeed  already  senile? 
The  type  of  envious  decrepit  creature  who  cannot 
bear  tranquilly  the  sight  of  youth  and  fitness  leaping 
ahead. 


BROKEN   CHINA  151 

"Wait  for  Kevin!" 

"Come  on,  old  man.     Don't  keep  us  all  night." 

In  a  vile  humour  I  struggled  and  stumbled  in  their 
wake,  over  a  portion  of  rough  beach  that  was  new  to 
me;  towards  a  great  chain  of  rock  doorways  each 
as  tall  and  taller  than  the  very  cliffs,  built  at  right 
angles  from  the  cliffs,  far  out  to  sea.  In  better 
moments  I  might  have  found  it  a  fairy  spectacle. 
.  .  .  Atlantis  suddenly  risen  from  the  ocean  and 
hurled  in  opaque  grey  and  fig-purple  and  indigo 
against  the  taut  sapphire  sky;  unreality  fading 
to  its  final  impermanence  in  a  foam-lapped  island, 
sentinelled  by  two  jagged  columns  lifted  high  from 
the  green  sea;  a  last  roofless  portal  after  three 
arches  perfect  and  complete.  .  .  . 

Well,  I  was  in  no  mood  for  Atlantis  and  be- 
witchment; Brighton  pier  would  have  suited  me 
better. 

"Come  on,  Kev!" 

I  hoisted  myself  on  to  a  ledge;  some  goblin  must 
have  greased  it.  .  .  .  I  slid — threw  up  my  left 
hand  and  grabbed  at  a  hold  that  slowly  and  joyfully 
crumbled.  Yet  I  swear  Larry  and  Bai^bara  must 
have  come  over  this  barrier  of  points  and  chasms  in 
odd  marbled  yellow.  There  was  no  alternative  pas- 
sage to  the  first  archway.  My  other  fingers  had, 
without  conscious  volition,  fastened  on  to  security, 
though  forcing  my  body  to  a  twisted  dangle  in  mid-air 
— I  kicked  about  for  a  shelf  to  stand  upon — found 
none — my  arm  was  already  numb.     There  was  some* 


152  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

thing  resourceful  to  be  done,  of  course;  some  quick, 
nimble  way  out  of  the  predicament.  But  .  .  .  plop 
of  the  brown  sea-grapes  as  my  chest  scraped  them 
against  the  rock — ^but  I  was  wholly  at  a  loss — curse 
this  dinging  in  my  ears! — in  an  alien  element — alien 
territory — rock  territory.  .  .  . 

"Put  your  heel  here — to  your  right — ^no — wait! 
I'll  guide  it! — hereP'  My  foot  was  lifted  and  firmly 
wedged  into  a  crevice  whence  I  could  obtain  leverage 
to  ease  the  strain  on  my  one  arm.  Then  Barbara — 
yes,  it  was  she  who  had  come  to  the  rescue — Barbara 
said  casually.  "All  right  now,  aren't  you?"  and  re- 
joined Larry,  running  back  towards  us. 

"How  could  I  guess?  He's  always  been  a  first- 
rate  climber;  far  better  than  I,"  I  heard  him  explain 
in  defence  to  some  reproach  of  hers  which  I  was  not 
near  enough  to  catch. 

"But  he's  been  ill!"  indignantly. 

Larry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  gaze  roamed 
down  the   line    of   arches,    and    stayed,    fascinated. 

"I  must  get  out  to  that  island — is  it  concrete  fact, 
or  is  it  just  one's  inner  vision  thrown  out  to  sea  when 
one  happens  to  say  the  word  'islajnd'  to  oneself 
softly?  ...  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  very  slightest 
degree  surprised  to  hear  that  neither  of  you  saw  it." 

"We  can  both  see  a  chunk  broken  off  from  the 
mainland,  without  rhapsodizing,  I  suppose?"  I 
found  it  a  relief  to  be  surly.  But  Larry  merely  re- 
peated, "I  must  get  out  to  that  island — can  it  be 
done?"  to  Barbara,  who  replied  eagerly,  "It's  just 


BROKEN   CHINA  153 

passable  by  the  lowest  tides;  Ned  discovered  a  way; 
we  might  manage  it  now  if  we  made  a  dash  for  it." 

"Come  along,  then.  Look  here,  Kev,  you'd  better 
sit  down  and  smoke  your  eternal  pipe.  We  won't 
be  very  long." 

"I'm  coming  too,"  in  my  most  dogged  voice. 

The  rocks  had  deserted  me;  Larry  was  their  god 
and  master  and  comrade  now.  Larry,  with  Barbara 
beside  him.  Even  the  rocks  ...  I  was  getting 
maudlin  in  my  endeavour  not  to  betray  the  strain 
of  following  the  difficult  trail  of  the  pair  who  must 
not  be  left  alone — must  not  be  left  alone — or  she 
would  tell  him.  .  .  . 

Barbara,  hectically  desiring  my  company,  said: 
"Yes,  come  along;  I'll  help  you  over  the  nasty 
places." 

But  it  was  a  wry  prospect  to  be  helped  by  Barbara, 
up  and  down  interminably,  up  those  stark  black 
precipices  and  down  those  horribly  smooth  gulfs; 
always  with  the  huge  archways  overhead  hollowing 
the  sound  of  our  voices,  disguising  the  gulls'  cry  to 
human  anguish;  with  the  streaked  and  sickly  rocks 
needling  a  flat,  blue-purple  background;  streams  of 
cold  air;  the  suck  of  invisible  breakers  from  below 
and  round  about,  swirling  hoarsely  to  meet  us, 
booming  sullenly  in  our  rear.  .  .  .  And  feet  that 
slipped  and  slipped.  .  .  .  Rock-territory  was  now 
more  than  hostile;  it  was  nightmare. 

I  shook  my  head;  sat  down  and  filled  my  pipe,  as 
bidden. 


154  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

"We  shan't  be  long,"  Larry  repeated  reassuringly. 
Barbara  sat  down  beside  me,  and  dug  her  toes 
obstinately  into  the  sand.  "I'm  not  keen  on  going. 
Let's  give  it  up.  There's  a  sort  of  three-inch  sloping 
gangway  we  should  have  to  cross,  just  under  the  dip 
by  the  last  arch,  before  we  jump  over  to  the  island; 
there's  no  take-off — it  always  frightens  me.  I'll  stop 
with  Kev." 

Barbara's  tact  was  a  gruesome  thing.  Nor  was  I 
complimented  by  her  choice  to  remain  behind.  She 
hated  Larry;  undoubtedly  liked  me  best.  But  her 
liking  was  with  blunt  feelers.  .  .  .  All  her  vitality 
was  only  aware  of  Larry;  responsive,  though  in 
hatred;  thrilling  to  him,  though  in  scorn  and  in- 
tolerance. 

"Well,  take  me  to  see  the  gangway,  and  we'll  chuck 
the  island.  Of  course,  as  it's  a  dangerous  transit,  I 
don't  dream  of  allowing  you  to  attempt  it." 

Larry's  well-timed  bout  of  authority  had  the  desired 
effect  of  immediately  sending  Barbara  in  the  direction 
of  the  last  arch. 

"Babs!  Babs!  Perhaps  we'd  better  not  even 
look  at  it  .  .  ."  gracelessly  he  spurred  her  on — her 
slim  legs  and  flying  hair  darted  from  my  view;  and 
then  his  sweater  sharply  white  for  an  instant  against  a 
sawn-out  triangle  of  dark  peacock  sea.  I  was  alone. 
They  would  not  come  back — just  yet.  Not  till  the 
tension  of  the  past  days  was  violently  snapped.  Not 
till  Barbara  had  enlightened  him  as  to  why  he  was  an 
imwelcome  guest,  "Kevin  told  us " 


BROKEN   CHINA  155 

He  was  hearing  it  now — somewhere  hidden  among 
the  vast  craggy  masonry.  I  started  in  the  direction 
they  had  gone — stared.  .  .  . 

Presently  I  went  home.  Nothing  was  to  be  gained 
by  waiting;  and  I  did  not  care  to  see  them  return 
together;  there  had  been  that  in  Larry's  follow- 
ing gaze  after  the  girl,  which  was  neither  mirth  nor 
battle.  ... 

The  rocks  were  tolerably  kind  again — ^now. 

Larry  and  Barbara  walked  in  halfway  through 
supper — he  very  pale,  and  she  flushed,  and  con- 
spicuously intent  on  something  alive  she  carried  in  the 
palm  of  her  hand. 

"It's  a  baby  field-mouse — I  found  him  at  the  foot 
of  a  slope,  squealing  for  his  mother;  he  must 
have  rolled  down,  and — oh.  Mummy,  he's  still  blind, 
the  darling!" 

Kate  and  Ned  and  Micky  crowded  round  her — 
they  were  all  fanatical  animal  lovers,  and  Barbara 
even  more  so  than  the  rest.  She  pored  lovingly  over 
the  tiny  grey  creature,  in  its  improvised  bed  of  cotton- 
wool, coaxing  it  to  lick  a  little  warm  milk  off  her 
finger.  To  be  nearer  her  tender,  absorbed  face, 
I  joined  the  group,  and  off'ered  "Nebuchadnezzar"  as 
a  befitting  title  for  the  new  baby. 

"Neb — oh.  Neb,  you've  got  such  a  delicious  wee 
pink  tongue — Micky,  you  don't  think  he'll  die  of 
being  indoors,  do  you?  Ought  I  perhaps  to  take  him 
back  and  hunt  for  his  mother?  I  couldn't  bear  to 
hurt  him " 


156  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

Larry  laughed  outright,  lounging  apart  from  us  all, 
against  the  staircase,  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  She 
could  not  bear  to  hurt  the  field-mouse! — Barbara's 
look  at  him  was  spun  of  quivering  fury,  and  Kate 
Seton  said  coldly,  "Mr.  Munro  is  tired  of  waiting  for 
his  supper.  Come  back  to  the  table,  children — 
the  mouse  is  all  right  for  the  moment." 

But  the  laugh  scraped  my  guilty  nerve  painfully — 
so  Babs  had  given  him  a  bad  time. 

I  was  so  sick  of  my  part  of  unconscious  breeziness 
— insensibility  to  an  atmosphere  that  was  almost 
visible  in  its  opacity.  .  .  .  Dead  sick  of  it.  But  it 
would  certainly  play  itself  out  this  evening  .  .  . 
things  were  beginning  to  happen  violently,  and  pre- 
tence was  toppling  to  right  and  left — Babs  had 
decreed  it  so;  Babs  saw  no  reason  for  pretence. 

She  and  Larry  were  in  wild  spirits  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  meal.  He  looked  like  an  alert  and  wrath- 
ful young  faun — and  his  vengeful  insolence  on  the 
Setons  for  their  rudeness  of  days  had  a  point  and  a 
sting  pointing  clearly,  to  me  at  least,  that  now  he  was 
informed  of  the  cause. 

"I've  finished  the  book!"  K.  B.  Seton  announced 
suddenly.     "The  last  chapters  are  a  sheer  waste — 

I  was  demoralized  just  at  the  critical  stages " 

This  was  for  Larry  .  .  .  how  she  disliked  him! 
"As  for  you,  my  daughter,  you  were  such  a  failure 
as  the  heroine  that  I've  sent  you  back  to  school  on 
the  last  page  but  one!" 


BROKEN   CHINA  157 

"Mummy,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  put  me  in  your 
novels.  You'd  know  how  uncomfortable  it  was,  if 
somebody  did  it  once  to  you!" 

"Every  author's  family  gets  butchered  to  make  a 
publisher's  holiday,"  retorted  her  mother,  tranquilly 
ladling  out  custard. 

"I  believe  I  shall  use  you  up  in  a  book  one  day, 
Barbara,"  mused  Larry. 

"What  will  you  call  it?"  For  an  instant  pleased 
curiosity  put  her  off  the  defensive. 

"The  China-shop!" 

Dear  little  Micky  chortled,  "I  see!  you  mean  that 
Babs  is  a  sort  of  bull!" 

"The  whole  world's  a  china-shop,  and  innocence 
is  the  bull,"  I  supplied  sententiously — to  give  the 
girl  time  to  recover  from  the  buffet.  "Put  that  on 
your  title-page,  Larry." 

"What  about  'ignorance'  for  'innocence'?" 

"Not  so  pretty." 

"It  won't  be  a  pretty  book." 

"It  won't  ever  be  a  book  at  all!"  Barbara  returned 
headlong  to  the  fray.  "You  only  talked  about 
it  for  effect.  That  sort  of  speechifying  is  part  of 
your — your  theatrical  equipment." 

It  was  a  taunt  delivered  at  random;  she  hadn't 
heard  of  Larry  Munro,  the  romantic  actor.  And 
behind  her  wrestling  anger,  she  stood  forth,  the  one 
very  young  girl  in  the  world,  symbolizing  a  whole 
army  of  hoydens,  frank  and  sweet  and  challenging: 
in  their  name  she  demanded  that  their  mates  shall 


158  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

bring  them  first  love  like  their  own,  as  clear  and  as 
wondering;  hotly  disappointed,  wilfully  intolerant 
of  the  women-robbers  who  have  been  beforehand  to 
spoil  for  them  their  young  and  passionate  adventure. 
.  .  .  "And  Kevin's  mother,  too!"  added  Barbara's 
personal  condemnation. 

And  silently,  desperately,  Larry  pleaded  back  for 
the  men:  "Ah,  do,  please,  understand  better  than 
that.  We  knew  about  you  all  the  time,  but  we 
dared  not  trust  to  our  luck;  you  might  have  been 
an  illusion  and  then  we  should  have  had  nothing. 
We  weren't  as  vicious  or  as  horrid  and  depraved  as 
you  imagine — only  young  cowards  who  dared  not 
believe  that  what  we  wanted  could  ever  come  true. 
The  divine  thing  is  spoilt — we've  spoilt  it  for  our- 
selves. And  you  don't  even  begin  to  understand  how 
hard  it  is.  .  .  ." 

"And  what  does  it  matter  whose  mother  she  was?" 
answering  Barbara's  scornful  postscript — "She  was 
just  a  woman  who  loved  me.  You've  won  without 
even  trying — can't  you  be  generous?" 

Meanwhile:  "You're  never  natural  for  one 
moment,  are  you?"  Barbara  Went  on,  resuming 
the  covering  attack — obviously  in  their  intense 
consciousness  one  of  the  other,  they  could  not  refrain 
from  mutual  badgering.  "Don't  you  ever  get  sick  of 
being  a  mountebank?  Or  haven't  you  noticed  yet 
how  it  jars  on  us?  We  found  it  fairly  amusing  at 
first." 


BROKEN   CHINA  159 

"Ned,  it's  time  that  you  and  Barbara  did  some 
solid  holiday  reading;  you've  idled  long  enough!" 
Mrs.  Seton  regarded  her  daughter  with  anxious  eyes, 
aware  that  some  catastrophic  shattering  of  china- 
ware  must  have  occurred  to  have  brought  the  girl  to 
such  an  emotional  pitch.  She  glanced  questioningly 
at  me — I  opposed  a  blank  front.  But  indeed  we 
were  all  listening  acutely,  but  with  ears  variously 
attuned,  to  the  echoes  of  a  recent  smash.  .  .  .  Micky 
interjected  thoughtfully:  "Isn't  it  somehow  funny  to 
think  that  today  a  week  ago  Larry  was  a  stranger  to 
us?"  The  remark  sounded  irrelevant,  but  could  best 
have  been  interpreted  as  a  significant  comment  on  his 
family's  easy  manners  on  short  acquaintance.  No- 
body took  any  apparent  notice  of  Micky;  and  I  asked 
Barbara  of  what  her  holiday  reading  consisted. 

"Ned's  is  for  his  matric,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes — but  I  passed  mine  last  year,  so  I'm  ahead. 
Only  I  can't  just  do  nothing  at  all  in  London — it's 
so  dull  during  the  day,  even  if  I  go  to  a  dance  every 
night,"  hopefully.  "There's  Art,  of  course — but  I 
haven't  quite  made  up  my  mind  just  what  sort  of  art 
I'm  going  to  study." 

"Then  why  not  study  the  art  of  welcoming  a 
guest?"  Delicately,  deliberately,  Larry  broke  this 
selected  item  of  china.  It  was  so  done  that  there  was 
no  excuse  for  one  of  us  to  ignore  the  crash  and  the 
after-silence.  .  .  .  Larry  was  leaning  a  little  forward 
from  his  seat,  rather  mournfully  smiling  at  Barbara, 
who  sat  next  to  me — but  his  eyes  made  me  think 


160  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

of  goat-legs  prancing.  ...  I  wondered  if  it  would 
be  possible  for  anybody  at  that  table  ever  to  speak 
again.  ... 

Henry  Seton's  voice,  exuberantly  trumpeting  from 
the  threshold  of  the  garden  door,  solved  the  problem: 
"Kate!  Kate!  Congratulate  me!  My  guinea-pig 
has  just  given  birth  to  seven  little  guinea-pigs!" 

His  wife,  under  stress  of  the  situation,  startled 
him  by  the  lack  of  womanly  sympathy  displayed  in 
her  retort. 

"Well,"  she  snapped,  "you  didn't  suppose  it  would 
give  birth  to  seven  little  alligators,  did  you?" 

[10] 

And  after  that  the  evening  became  syncopated. 
The  dislocation  in  the  rhythm,  the  stop  and  the  missed 
beat  and  the  forward  jerk,  attributable  to  those  uneasy 
seconds  when  one  or  the  other  of  us  remembered  that 
the  other  had  or  had  not  been  told  of  what  ourselves 
were  secretly  aware  and  the  third  person  dubitably 
knew — or  not,  if  the  other  after  all  were  only  pre- 
tending to  knowledge,  or  had  not,  as  suspected,  be- 
trayed a  confidence.  .  .  . 

Thus  Mrs.  Seton  to  herself:  "What  has  that 
young  libertine  been  saying  to  my  Barbara  this  after- 
noon? Is  he  attracted  by  her?  Does  she  care  a 
snap  of  the  fingers  for  him?  No — certainly  not. 
And  yet — she's  disgracefully  over-excited.  Is  this 
going  to  spoil  my  nice  plan  for  her  and  Kevin?     I 


BROKEN   CHINA  161 

shall  be  extremely  annoyed  if  it  does.  Has  Babs 
let  out  that  Kevin  let  out  about  his  mother? 
And  has  Kevin  himself  any  idea  that  anything  is 
wrong  anywhere?  Gracious  Heaven!  If  only 
people  were  a  little  more  indecently  communicative, 
none  of  this  ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay  need  have  occurred 
— I'm  sure  it's  upsetting  Micky,  psychically.  Well, 
well,  I  suppose  it  will  make  quite  a  good  book  one  day 
and  that's  all  that  need  matter  to  me.  But  decidedly 
this  evening  hasn't  done  its  damndest  with  us 
yet.  .  .  ." 

And  Micky.  .  .  .  "Yes — wait  a  minute — I 
believe  I've  got  it  all  parcelled  up  and  sealed  and 
addressed,  now:  This  Munro  chap  is  keen  on 
Babs,  and  she's  just  sprung  on  him  that  she  and  Mums 
and  Ned  and  the  pater  know  he's  a  rotter.  What  do 
they  know?  That's  not  important — but  how  did 
they  know?  Quite  simple.  .  .  .  Kevin  told  them. 
Not  like  Kev,  though,  to  mess  up  another 
fellow's  chances.  .  .  .  No — wait  a  minute — he  must 
have  spouted  it  by  accident  after  he  fell  on  his  head. 
And  they're  keeping  that  from  him.  But  he  knows, 
all  the  same — I  sort  of  feel  he  knows — ^he's 
only  faking  this  what-the-dickens-is-up-with-you-all 
stunt.  ...  I  must  watch  Kevin  very,  very  carefully 
.  .  .  for  the  moment  he's  more  interesting  than  Larry. 
But  I'd  better  not  let  Mums  see  that  I've  twigged 
anything  wrong,  or  she'll  send  me  to  bed  and 
foozle  the  whole  caboodle.  I  must  see  what 
happens    this    evening,  .  .  .  though    it's    a    horrid 


162  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

evening  .  .  .  horrid.  .  .  .     I — I    almost    want    to 
howl.  .  .  ." 

"I  was  right — I  was  right — I  know  I  was  right  to 
have  it  out  with  him — why  should  I  consider  his 
feelings?  That  sort  of  man  is  a  beast  ...  we 
decided  long  ago  at  school  that  we  girls  need  jolly 
well  not  put  up  with  that  sort  of  thing  in  a  man.  .  . 
And  Ned  says  he's  a  bounder  too.  Only  I  hope 
he  won't  tell  that  I've  told  what  Kevin  told,  because 
it's  a  shame  to  make  Kevin  miserable  just  when  he's 
in  such  good  spirits.  ...  I  like  Kevin.  .  .  .  Will 
Nebuchadnezzar  live  through  the  night,  the  darling? 
Oh,  he  mustn't,  he  mustn't  die — Ought  I  to  have 
brought  him  home?  Ought  I  to  have  said  .  .  . 
that,  on  the  island?  Larry  was  frightfully  rude  at 
supper — I'll  never  forgive  him!  Much  he  cares! 
If  only  he  hadn't  come  this  summer.  And  yet  .  .  . 
mother's  so  headlong,  inviting  him  like  that.  Has 
mother  guessed  that  I've  been  such  an  idiot?  No, 
I  wasn't  an  idiot,  I  was  right,  perfectly  right.  The 
boys  will  say  so,  and  they'd  have  said  so  at  school. 
But  this  evening's  queer  and  I  wish  it  were  safely 
over.  .  .  ."  Barbara's  mental  tumult  was  all  too 
candidly  expressed  in  her  riotous  behaviour;  in  her 
eyes,  more  grey  than  blue  tonight,  questioning, 
sorrowful,  lightening  to  fury. 

Only  Larry's  state  of  mind  was  to  me  an  inter- 
rogation— he  was  no  Seton,  and  I  could  not  read  him 
like  a  Seton.     He  seemed  the  only  one  of  us  not 


BROKEN   CHINA  163 

desperately  straining  to  have  crossed  the  dangerous 
zone  of  the  next  few  hours;  out  of  his  climax  of 
popular  disgrace  had  oddly  crept  an  evanescent 
element  of  popular  favour;  he  sounded  one 
tune  for  all  of  us — it  was  syncopation. 

How  else  to  describe  the  apparently  inconsequent 
result  on  our  action,  of  various  sets  of  over-excited 
nerves  jerking  and  pinging?  We  rioted  in  groups, 
and  separately,  and  discordantly  against  each 
other,  or  in  rare  harmonious  spasms  of  unity. 
We  bawled  choruses  sufficiently  out  of  date  and  for- 
gotten to  give  youngsters  the  satisfactory  yearning 
melancholy  of  having  passed  beyond  the  threshold 
of  their  youth!  We  scuffled;  swarmed  up  and 
down  the  stairway,  from  kitchen  to  garden,  and  back 
again;  capered  madly  in  rag  time  and  no  time 
and  any  time;  burlesqued  melodrama  and  pathos — 
"There's  a  broken-hearted  widow  tends  the  grave  of 
mahdd  Currew" — this  was  Larry  as  a  tenth-rate 
platform  elocutionist 

"Shut  up,  Larry — she's  been  tending  that  old  grave 
now  since  a  quarter-past  eight!" 

"Well — geraniums  and  calceolarias  do  need  to  be 
properly  planted  and  regularly  watered,  if  they're  to 
make  any  sort  of  a  show! — 'And  the  yellow  gahdd 
looks  down  upon  it  arl.  .  .  .'"  He  had  scrambled  on 
to  the  high  stone  rim  of  the  well  just  outside  the  wide- 
swung  kitchen  door,  squatted  with  an  evil,  immobile 
grin  just  showing  above  his  hunched  knees:  "Tableau: 


164  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

the  one-eyed  yellow  idol,  yellowly  exultant.  .  .  . 
Tableau:  Rachel  waiting  for  Jacob — "  with  a  swift 
change  of  personality  he  stood  shyly  expectant,  arms 
upraised  to  support  a  great  earthenware  pitcher  upon 
his  shoulder.  A  mountebank,  Barbara  had  called 
him?  .  .  .  well,  for  the  first  time  since  knowing 
Larry  Munro,  I  was  reminded  that  the  first  Larry 
Munro  had  been  a  famous  actor. 

"Kev,  come  and  be  Jacob — d'you  think  I  can  wait 
here  all  day?" 

"You  can  wait  seven  years,  while  Jacob  carries  on 
with  Leah  behind  the  tent-door,"  I  said.  "That's  the 
Bible  up  to  date." 

"Short  scena  in  a  few  vigorous  cantos:  The  Re- 
turn of  Rachel  from  the  Well,  or  A  Sister  to  a  Sis- 
ter," Larry  announced.  "  'Ello,  dearie  ..."  his  tone 
compounded  in  equal  parts  of  beeriness  and  honey- 
dem,  became  at  once  reminiscent  of  a  certain  popular 
comedian — "Any  one  called  while  I've  been  fetchin' 
in  a  drop  o'  water?" 

"Water! — so  you  say!" 

"There  now!  Look  for  yourself,  you  nosy  thing. 
Never  satisfied,  are  you?  Think  I  spend  my  time  at 
the  '  Palm  and  Concubine  '  like  you  do?" 

"What's  a  concubine?"  shrilled  Micky,  deeply 
enjoying  the  performance. 

"A  sDecies  of  Eastern  vegetation  now  extinct. 
Micky,"  I  threw  in  an  explanatory  aside — "Been  long 
enough,  anyway." 

"I  may  have  been  passin'  the  time  of  day  with  some 


BROKEN   CHINA  165 

one.  I'm  sure  shut  up  all  day  here  with  you 
and  Pa " 

"Might  have  had  more  chance  of  meeting  the  some 
one  you  mean  if  you'd  stopped  quiet  at  home  and  not 
stood  about  in  the  sun  spoilin'  what  complexion 
you've  got,  Rachel  dear,^'  ^ 

"Has  Mr.  Jacob  been — an'  gone?"  in  violent 
consternation. 

I  smirked,  as  I  am  certain  Leah  would  have 
smirked. 

"Oh,  you  sly  thing.  ..." 

"I  can't  very  well  help  it,  can  I,  if  he  finds  it  agree- 
able to  drop  in  for  a  bit  of  a  chat  while  you're  out.  .  . 
But  I'm  sorry  you  should  have  waited  at  the 
well,  dearie!" 

At  this  juncture  of  the  vituperation,  Rachel  hurled 
herself  upon  Leah,  and  the  scena  terminated  in  a  wild- 
flung  medley  of  arms  and  legs. 

"I  can't  have  Micky  miseducated  in  the  Scriptures 
in  this  fashion,"  expostulated  Micky's  mother;  "go 
to  bed,  my  youngest." 

"Oh,  Mums!     Mayn't  I  sleep  indoors  tonight?" 

"No,  my  son." 

"Mums,  am  I  never  going  to  sleep  in  a  bed  again?" 

"I  cannot  tell,  my  son.     Probably  not." 

Micky  sighed.  "I'd  like  to  stop  up  and  see  Larry 
and  Kev  do  more  Bible  pictures." 

"It's  a  most  excellent  method  of  impressing  the 
Scriptures  on  Micky's  mind,  Mrs.  Seton.  We'll  work 
up  a  complete  Revue  on  those  lines,  called:     'Try  It 


166  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

In  Your  Bath!' — attractive  title,  that!  Ought  to  draw 
the  masses.  Scene  two :  Joseph  and  Potiphar's  wife 
— Kev,  you  can  be  Joseph,  since  you  show  such  talent. 
Scene,  the  pantry — Joseph  conscientiously  counting 
the  currants.  Enter  Mrs.  Potiphar.  .  .  .  The  audi- 
ence had  better  come  along  to  the  pantry — ^this  is 
to  be  a  realistic  spectacle." 

From  Potiphar's  wife  in  semi-Egyptian  garb,  Larry 
had  presently  whirled  the  entire  company  into  the 
hysteria  of  dressing-up.  Attired  as  that  insolent 
young  scapegrace,  Rupert  of  Hentzau,  he  initiated 
Micky,  whom  he  had  coaxed  off  the  threatened  banish- 
ment to  bed,  into  the  stage  technicalities  of  the  death- 
duel  between  Rupert  and  Rudolf  Rassendyll. 

"I  once  knew  a  Rupert  who  snicked  a  bit  off 
Rudolf's  ear  in  the  excitement  of  a  first-night." 

"On  purpose?" 

"Lord,  no!  not  rehearsed  it  often  enough,  I 
suppose." 

"But" — ^Micky's  lashes  curled  up  in  astonished 
enquiry — "when  people  fight  on  the  stage,  do  they 
rehearse  it  beforehand?     I  mean — I  thought " 

He  was  interrupted  by  scoffing  shouts  from  his 
elders. 

"Oh,  Micky,  you  fathead!"  guffawed  his  brother. 
"Why,  they  jolly  well  have  to  practise  till  they  get 
every  stroke  word-perfect.  Look  here,  Munro,  bet 
you  can't  do  this!"  seizing  a  weapon  and  making 
passes  at  a  ham  which  dangled  from  the  raftered 
ceiling. 


BROKEN   CHINA  167 

"Nevertheless,  there's  a  lot  to  be  said  for  Micky's 
idea  of  haphazard  stage-duelling,"  laughed  Larry, 
easily  disarming  Ned.  "From  the  actor's  point  of 
view,  it  lends  a  fine  gambling  element.  Imagine 
Henry  Ainley  making  his  entrance  with  the  glorious 
uncertainty  upon  him  as  to  whether  he'll  live  to  make 
an  exit;  and  Robert  Loraine  never  quite  sure  if  he  or 
the  eleven-hired-ruffians-who-set-upon-him  are  going 
to  emerge  victorious,  even  though  he's  the  hero!" 

Kate  suggested  that  Micky's  principle  might  be 
elongated  further:  "A  rubber  of  bridge  upon  the 
stage,  for  instance,  would  be  far  more  interesting  to 
the  actors  if  instead  of  having  it  all  cut-and-dried,  they 
don't  know  how  the  cards  will  be  dealt,  or  what  points 
are  to  be  scored,  or  how  long  the  rubber  may  last; 
if  the  audience  are  bored  bye-and-bye,  let  'em  rise  and 
go  home!" 

But  I  lazily  negatived  the  application  of  this  new 
principle  to  all  contingencies:  "Too  much  nervous 
strain  altogether.  In  social  drama  as  played 
up  to  date,  is  Irene  Vanbrugh,  cowering,  white-faced, 
behind  the  bedroom  door,  never  to  know  from  night  to 
night  whether  her  brute  of  a  husband  is  going  to 
smash  through  that  panel  or  not?  She'd  be  a  wreck 
by  the  hundredth  performance. 

"Kevin,  my  dear  boy,  your  conversation  is  not  fit 
for  the  young;  if  you  can't  look  divinely  appro- 
priate in  the  costume  of  a  Spanish  buccaneer  without 
getting  demoralized,  I  shall  have  to  send  Micky 
to  bed." 


168  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

"Ow — ow — ow!"  yelped  Micky,  dodging  up  the 
stairs,  and  reeling  from  contact  with  Barbara,  who 
leapt  upon  us  from  the  upper  floor,  arrayed  in  pale 
green  stockings  and  trunks  (I  suspected  'part  of 
a  bathing-costume),  a  white  frilled  shirt,  a  broad 
yellow  sash,  and  a  yellow  silk  kerchief  knotted 
carelessly  round  her  head. 

"I'm  a  desperado  pirate!"  she  announced,  in 
braggadocio  emulation  of  Larry  and  myself,  swag- 
gering natives  of  Ruritanian  drama  and  the  Spanish 
Main. 

.  .  .  And  she  looked  more  than  ever  an  ideal 
vision  of  young  English  maidenhood,  exquisitely 
fresh  and  lissom,  dainty  and  sedate.  .  .  .  Larry 
and  I  gazed  at  her  in  silence,  but  K.  B.  Seton  quite 
frankly  remarked — 

"Not  you,  my  dear!  A  thoroughly  nice  girl  from 
the  Vicarage  is  all  you'll  manage  to  pull  off — in 
your  appearance,  anyway." 

"Mother!"  with  crimson  blushes  of  alternate  rage 
and  mortification — and  perhaps  sudden  confusion 
born  of  the  hose  impulsively  donned — Barbara  faith- 
fully portrayed  her  mother's  description. 

"I  do  look  like  a  pirate!"  childishly  she  stamped 
her  foot.  Then  wheeled  round  appealing  to  me 
"Kevin!" 

But  I  was  not  to  be  beguiled: 

"  *A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  nothing  more^  " — firmly. 


BROKEN   CHINA  169 

"She  shan't  be  called  a  primrose  if  it  upsets  her," 
teased  Larry  in  his  turn.  "She's  our  own  little  pet 
hedgehog!" 

We  all  tried  to  remain  serious,  and  not  one  of  us 
succeeded  .  .  .  the  simile  was  all  too  apt  of  Bar- 
bara's lapses  into  prickliness.  She  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  one  slender  hand  on  the  hip, 
uncertain  whether  to  cry  or  to  join  in  the  laughter 
against  herself;  underlip  bitten  in;  small  head 
thrown  defiantly  backwards,  the  swathed  yellow  silk 
defining  its  perfect  shapeliness.  ...  A  primrose — 
no,  not  quite — a  primrose  crouched  too  closely  to  the 
earth.  The  dance  of  the  golden  harebells,  if  that 
could  exist — or  a  cowslip  swung  frailly  on  its  stem. 

Suddenly,  in  startling  interpretation  of  my  thoughts, 
Larry  began  to  whistle  Mendelssohn's  Spring 
Song. 

"Don't!"  cried  Barbara  passionately  .  .  .  she 
had  been  teased  enough. 

But  he  took  no  heed  of  her — nor  of  us  .  .  .  and 
the  mischievous  melody  persisted — it  seemed  to  en- 
circle her,  twine  her  about  and  about  with  its  elusive 
gaiety — darted  away  only  to  return  again  .  .  . 
tweaking  her  spirit  in  invitation;  taunting  her  pride; 
mocking  her  silly  efforts  to  escape  from  April's  own 
youthfulness. 

How  he  whistled!  as  he  leant  nonchalantly  against 
the  balustrade,  hardly  looking  in  her  direction — ^but 
wooing  her,  wooing  her  all  the  time  in  his  own  fash- 
ion. .  .  .  The  girl  was  frightened,  put  up  her  hands 


170  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

to  her  ears,  moved  away  as  though  by  so  doing  she 
could  break  through  the  well-nigh  tangible  beset- 
ing  of  melody.  .  .  .  All  round  her,  green  tassels  a- 
sway  in  a  flimmer  of  pale  sunshine  .  .  .  three  sticks 
crossed — ^bring  a  bit  of  twine — now  gather  some 
small  dry  twigs  for  the  lighting — ^that's  capital!  .  .  . 
mush  of  last  autumn's  leaves  underfoot  .  .  .  damp 
moss  and  earth  and  sharp  sweet  smells  ...  a  wisp 
of  blue  smoke.  Babs,  Babs,  forgive  me  that  I  did 
not  trust  in  your  -coming  .  .  .  look,  I  am  here,  your 
mate,  young  as  you  and  as  crazy  with  the  spring  .  .  . 
dear  .  .  .  dearest.  .  .  . 

Thus  the  melody  whispered  and  coaxed — then 
danced  away  again  in  a  fury  at  her  lack  of  response 
— little  chit!  little  schoolgirl!  and  she  thought  she 
could  be  a  pirate;  a  dashing  dare-devil  pirate!  What 
— she?  she?  she?  pixie  fingers  pointing  in  derision. 
She  a  pirate?  Why  has  she  knotted  a  rag  of  yellow 
silk  round  her  head?  To  look  like  a  pirate!  ha — 
ha-ha — ha-ha-ha  .  .  .  the  motes  staggered  into 
irresponsible  merriment  at  the  mere  idea — trilled  up 
and  up  with  liquid,  inhuman  laughter.  .  .  . 

Bewildered,  terrified  beyond  all  control,  Barbara 
suddenly  threw  herself  on  her  knees  in  front  of  her 
mother,  and  with  head  buried  in  her  arms,  burst 
into  a  storm  of  sobs. 

Larry  stopped  whistling. 

Presently  Micky  said:     "She's  crying  because  she 


BROKEN   CHINA  171 

thinks  Nebuchadnezzar'ull  die  before  morning.  He 
is  looking  pretty  bad.  Babs  is  such  an  ass  about 
mice!" 

I  mentally  assigned  Micky  a  high  post  in  the 
diplomatic  service. 

"Neb — Oh,  Mums,  he  mustn't  die — he  shan't  die 
— I  couldn't  bear  it.  I'll  stop  up  all  night  with 
him.  .  .  ."  And  I  cannot  tell  in  what  after  form 
Barbara  displayed  her  gratitude  to  her  small  brother. 

"Will  you  indeed?  Not  being  sufficiently  over- 
excited already,  I  suppose!"  Kate  Seton's  tone  was 
semi-humorous;  part-angry — ^but  she  could  hardly 
vent  her  anger  on  Larry  for  .  .  .  what  had  he  done? 
— for  whistling  a  song.  So  she  let  her  humour 
triumph,  and  continued:  "You're  all  of  you  behav- 
ing like  bad  children  who  have  sat  up  too  late  at  a 
party.  We'll  have  a  nice  quiet  round  game  of  cards 
to  settle  you  down — and  then  bed  for  the  lot  of  you!" 
She  drew  a  pack  from  the  table-drawer — "I  found 
these  in  the  cupboard  the  other  day. 

I  glaced  at  them — and  broke  down  helplessly. 

"Now  it's  you,  Kevin!  I  thought  at  least 
you.  .  .  .     Well,  what's  the  joke,  anyhow?" 

"Your  nice  quiet  game  of  cards  to  settle  us  down, 
happens  to  be — Pit,  that's  all!"  I  gasped,  as  soon 
as  I  could  exchange  laughter  for  speech.  "You've 
never  played  Pit?  Well,  you  shall  play  it  now  .  .  . 
it'll  be  a  revelation  to  you,  Kate.  Here,  I'll 
deal!" 

"Old  Robinson  left  'em  here,  four  years  ago,  as  a 


172  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

sort  of  farewell  present,  I  believe,"  Ned  explained, 
referring  to  a  schoolmate  who  had  previously  stayed 
at  The  Shoe. 

Henry  Seton  peered  in  at  us. 

"Gome  and  join,  Henry." 

Lugubriously  he  shook  his  head:  "No — my 
youngest  guinea-pig  is  dying.  I  intend  to  sit  up  with 
it  all  night." 

"And  /  intend  not  to  be  made  miserable  a  second 
longer  by  this  awful  plague  of  dying  pets,  engulf- 
ing my  family's  nights.  Come  and  join  us,  Henry. 
Be  bright.  Smile.  There  are  your  cards,  and  Ned 
will  tell  you  the  rules  of  the  game.  It's  very 
pleasant,  so  far." 

"The  pit  is  open!"  I  declaimed  maliciously. 

And  even  Kate  looked  astonished  by  the  horrible 
clamour  which  followed  my  simple  announcement. 

Making  a  noise — a  causeless,  yelping,  incessant 
unmusical  noise,  was  what  we  all  most  needed  to 
give  vent  to  the  suppressed  hysteria  which  had  been 
accumulating  since  Larry's  arrival.  Now,  by  dint 
of  "Two— two— two"  "Ono— one"  "Three— three- 
three — three"  bawled  just  beyond  the  utmost  limit 
of  our  shouting  capacities,  we  relieved  ourselves 
somewhat  .  .  .  though  if  K.  B.  Seton  imagined 
from  the  noise  that  we  were  the  roomful  of  healthy, 
happy,  rowdy  youngsters  we  seemed  to  the  casual 
ear,  her  sense  of  atmosphere  was,  as  usual,  at  fault. 

The  first  round  continued  interminably,  with  ever 
more  of  din.  .  .  .     Something  was  wrong  with  the 


BROKEN   CHINA  173 

machinery  of  the  game — The  winning  shout  of: 
"Comer  in  wheat"  or  straw — or  oats — ought  to  have 
been  raised  long  ago.  Then  we  discovered  Henry- 
clutching  with  obstinate  pertinacity  to  his  original 
share  of  cards — refusing  to  allow  a  single  one  of 
them  to  circulate.  No  wonder,  then,  that  the  barter 
was  endless. 

Barbara  and  Ned  hurled  themselves  upon  him, 
expostulating:     "But,  Dad " 

"Henry  dear " 

"Look — these  wheats — you  want  to  get  rid  of 
them — ^you  must  call  'two — two — two '  " 

"No,"  said  Henry  gloomily.     "I  don't  want  to." 

"That  closes  the  argument,  I  think,"  and  I  flung 
down  my  cards.  "Come  on,  Larry — I'll  see  you 
home  to  Tremmerrith.  I  want  some  fresh  air  after 
this."  And  indeed,  our  packed,  flushed  circle  of 
faces,  seen  round  the  lamp,  might  have  belonged  to  in- 
tent gamblers  in  a  sub-world  of  sensational  fiction. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  us,  we  heard  Barbara 
and  Henry  finally  and  hysterically  and  in  the  face  of 
Mrs.  Seton's  prohibitions,  asserting  that  they  meant  to 
sit  up  till  dawn — and  it  was  already  past  midnight — 
with  their  ailing  baby  mouse  and  youngest  guinea- 
pig  respectively. 

"Mum,  it's  raining,  and  I  do  want  to  sleep  in  a 
bed  for  once  .  .  ."  squealed  Micky. 

And  then  no  more.  .  .  .  The  splash  of  our  own 
feet  over  a  squiggle  of  track  through  the  dim  clover- 
field. 


174  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

Larry  said,  as  though  continuing  a  conversation 
started  long  ago:  "I  always  knew  I'd  spoil  some- 
thing good  for  myself  by  what  I  did.  Kev,  I  told 
Barbara  I  loved  her,  and  that  I  wanted  her  to  marry 
me,  today,  climbing  up  the  island." 

"And  you  told  her  that  you  loved  her,  and  that 
she  could  go  to  Hell,  tonight,  sitting  on  the  balus- 
trade. .  .  ." 

"And  only  you  picked  up  the  message — as  if  you 
were  any  good!"  Larry  laughed  ruefully,  and 
whistled  the  opening  bars  of  the  Spring  Song,  then 
subsided  again  into  his  previous  dejection.  His  mad 
gaiety,  which  ever  since  supper  had  swirled  every- 
thing and  everybody  into  burlesque,  was  easily  prov- 
ing its  flimsy  quality  now  we  were  well  away  from 
the  Setons. 

"I  say" — he  recommenced  abruptly — "have  you 
gathered  why  they've  been  treating  me  in  this  abom- 
inable fashion  all  the  week?  Babs  had  it  out  with 
me — what  is  it,  Kev?" 

"Nothing." 

Our  faces  were  invisible  to  each  other,  under  the 
mournful  starless  sky. 

"They  know — she  knows — all  about  Felicity." 

I  wondered  with  what  indifference  I  might  have 
listened  to  Larry's  self-reproach  on  the  score  of  his 
past,  had  the  past  been  "Constance"  or  "Helen"  or 
"Louise"?  any  one  name  more  impersonal  to  me  than 
"Felicity." 

That  he  should  speak  of  her  as  his  discarded 
mistress — a  phase,  an  incident  that  he  regretted.  .  .  . 


BROKEN   CHINA  175 

"Found  dead  in  a  field"  .  .  .  sensational  enough 
in  the  local  newspaper — but  I  remembered  that  I 
had  done  Larry  an  injury,  and  so  could  not  kill 
him.  .  .  . 

"We  had  quite  a  pleasant  little  scene,"  Larry  went 
on.  "So  frank  and  natural.  Babs  began:  'I  hate 
pretending,  and  I'm  not  going  to  pretend  any  more. 
You  may  as  well  hear  right  out  that  I  detest  and 
despise  you;  we've  all  loathed  you  from  the  moment 
you  came  into  the  house,  and  even  before;  mother's 
deadly  sorry  she  ever  invited  you.  We  were 
perfectly  happy  before  you  came.  But  what  we 
know  about  you  makes  us  sick!'  I  asked,  as  politely 
as  the  occasion  warranted,  what  they  knew  about 
me?  .  .  .  and  she  told  me." 

"And  how  did  she  know?" 

"Somebody  told  her,  I  suppose." 

"I  suppose  you  think  /  did." 

"Yes.     While  you  were  delirious." 

A  pause;  then,  "Look  here,  you  mustn't  let  her 
know  that  I've  told  you  that  she  told  me  you  told  her 
...  no,  don't  laugh — I  promised  I  wouldn't, 
because  she  doesn't  know  that  you  know." 

"When  did  you  guess  that  I  had  let  it  out?" 

"From  the  minute  I  set  foot  in  the  place — and  sh^ 

treated  me  like  a  leper "  he  broke  off — "oh, 

but  I  do  love  her  so  .  .  ."he  whispered  half  under 
his  breath. 

"I  was  not  delirious,"  I  said  slowly  and  de- 
liberately. 

And  Larry  replied,  "I  knew  that,  too." 


176  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

[11] 

We  had  passed  his  house  by  now,  and  were  trudg- 
ing steadily  onwards  between  the  steep  hedges  of  the 
lane.  .  .  .  Somewhere  was  a  china-shop  and  a  bull 
banging  about  in  it,  and  still  the  shatter  and  crash  of 
broken  crockery,  more  broken  crockery,  crockery 
which  had  stood  intact  upon  the  shelves  for  years. 
.  .  .  "I  knew  that,  too,"  said  Larry.  "Surprised? 
Why?  Of  course  you  queered  my  pitch;  hating 
each  other  as  we  do,  it  would  hardly  be  human  if  you 
hadn't." 

I  was  guilty  of  the  ingenious  query,  "Do  you 
hate  me,  too?" 

"Well,  what  did  you  suppose  was  the  reflex  action 
of  your  hatred  upon  me?" 

"I  didn't  think  of  you." 

"Oh,  surely — quite  a  lot!"  he  mocked.  "I 
wonder  you  ever  thought  of  anything  else. 
I  tell  you,  Kev,  it  got  to  be  an  obsession  of  mine 
— your  dogging,  ferocious,  persistent  jealousy.  .  .  . 
Till  I  discovered  that  it  was — fun,  making  things 
worse  for  you — butting  in  where  you  didn't  want  me, 
and  so  on.  You  imagined  that  it  was  my  blatant, 
unconscious  idiocy,  didn't  you?  I  took  a  sort  of 
cussed  delight  in  seeing  you  suffer  .  .  .  from  this 
same  idiocy.     You — twanged  a  nerve  in  me.  .  .  ." 

"Banjo  solos  for  two,"  I  remarked  grimly. 

"You  should  have  left  me  alone — and  then  I'd 
have  left  you  alone,"  he  burst  out,  as  though  from  a 


BROKEN    CHINA  177 

long  pent-up  sense  of  injury.  "You  began  it  .  .  . 
whatever  I  achieved,  you  resented  it;  whoever  liked 
me,  you  grudged  it.  Your  jealousy  clogged  up  the 
very  pores  of  the  world." 

I  was  shaken  with  a  fit  of  mad,  ironic  laughter 
— Larry's  point  of  view — Larry's  point  of  view. 

"I'd  have  killed  you,  if  I  hadn't  found  relief  in 
just — annoying  you,"  he  finished  his  confession,  and 
jerked  back  his  head  with  an  air  of  defiance. 

"Dear  little  lad,  aren't  you?" 

"I'm  not  that  sort  of  beast  with  any  one  else. 
Kev,  I'm  not.  If  I  were,  I'd  shoot  myself  as  unfit 
for  society.  It's  only  just  where  you're  concerned. 
That  one  nerve — When  I  see  the  sullen  slouch  of 
your  body  .  .  .  hating  me  with  every  line  of  ;it 
— then  I  turn  vicious.  You're  always  there.  .  .  . 
Why  can't  you  stop  hating  me?  You're  responsible 
for — for  the  banjo  solo,  as  you  call  it.  That  two 
men  shouldn't  find  it  decently  possible  to  keep  out 
of  each  other's  way " 

"My  dear  old  Larry,  if  I  set  up  house  in  Kams- 
chatka  and  you  in  Southern  Tibet,  we  should  be 
irresistibly  drawn  and  drawn  .  .  .  until  we  jostled 
again  in  PorthgoUan." 

"But  what  is  it,  Kev?" 

"The  construction  of  things.  There  isn't  room 
for  both  of  us." 

He  stopped  dead,  facing  me,  "I  say — ^that's  rather 
awful." 

His  comment,  solemn  and  stricken — and  somehow 


178  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

irresistibly  chubby,  on  a  state  of  psychology  with 
which  I  was  familiar  even  unto  nausea,  twitched 
afresh  at  my  risible  sense — it  was  in  an  exposed 
condition  of  late.  Besides,  my  particular  banjo  solo 
was  in  abeyance  for  the  moment;  it  never  twanged 
when  Larry  was  dejected  or  unsuccessful. 

"Rather  awful,"  I  repeated.  "Perhaps  we  had 
better  try  the  Tibet-Kamschatka  experiment  after 
these  confidences.  It's  a  dark  night  .  .  .  but,  you 
know,  we  shall  find  it  difficult  to  look  each  other  in 
the  face,  over  a  narrow  but  sunshiny  breakfast-table." 

"Yes,  awkward  they  should  have  placed  us  so 
exactly  opposite.  The  typical  Seton  touch  about 
the  situation,  though.  So  it's  good-bye  for  ever, 
Kev,  old  pal!  Funny  that  I  should  feel  it  a 
wrench.  .  .  .  Kev,  I  helieve  I'm  confoundedly  fond 
of  you." 

"You  are,"  I  tranquilly  assured  him.  "As  I  of 
you.  That's  the  whole  point  of  the  joke.  Well, 
well  .  .  .  the  best  of  friends  must  part " 

"But  how  small  the  world  is!"  Larry  capped  my 
platitude. 

"It  is — ^with  you  in  it!" 

"You  needn't  give  way  to  your  sardonic  humour 
just  at  the  last." 

"On  the  contrary,  I've  half  a  mind  to  indulge 
myself  and  be  bad  for  you,  by  confessing  all  that 
I've  most  admired  in  you,  during  our  seventeen  years 
of  acquaintance." 

"Strike  a  bargain.     If  you  do,  I  will." 


BROKEN   CHINA  179 

We  spent  the  next  ten  minutes  vying  mutual  com- 
pliments and  generosity.  And  then  after  all  I  vetoed 
the  South  Tibet  expedition. 

"Oh,  curse  your  vacillating  temperament!  Is  it 
likely  that  I'd  have  revealed  to  you  my  admiration 
for  your  manly  qualities,  if  I  supposed  I  was  ever 
going  to  see  you  again?" 

"You  can  set  off,  against  that,  my  enthusiasm  for 
your  more  scintillating  fascination.  Oh,  Lord,  I  wish 
we  hadn't!  it's  a  perilous  pastime — you'll  be 
unbearable  henceforward." 

"Barbara  says  I'm  unbearable  already." 

"Oh,  but  then  Barbara  is  quite,  quite  sure  of  what 
is  absolutely  and  definitely  wrong.  It's  the  blessed 
creed  of  seventeen." 

"Especially  blessed — for  me.  She's  the  type 
who'll  go  on  being  seventeen  and  unforgiving. 
According  to  Barbara,  there's  nothing  to  be  said  for 
me  ...  a  libertine,  a  wastrel,  the  sort  of  a  man  a  girl 
hears  about,  but  hopes  she'll  never  meet — ah  God, 
Kevin!  is  there  nothing  to  be  said  for  a  mere  fool?" 

Seventeen  must  have  punished  him  cruelly  for — 
forty-two.  I  had  never  before  heard  that  inflection  of 
dragging  wretchedness  in  any  man's  tone.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly my  focus  shifted,  swung  round  as  though  on  a 
pivot;  and  instead  of  my  bitter  resistance  to  the 
Larry-dynasty  robbing  me  of  my  due,  it  appeared 
that  Larry  had  been  robbed,  and  that  Felicity  and  I 
were  separately  guilty  of  it. 

"There  are  one  or  two  things  to  be  said  for  a  fool 


180  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

and  Barbara  requires  to  hear  them — crude  little 
ignoramus!  Leave  her  to  me,  Larry — it'll  be  all 
right." 

"But  you  care  for  her  yourself." 

"That's  beside  the  point.  ..."  But  it  was 
obviously  time  I  adjusted  my  conception  of  Larry 
as  an  unconscious  happy-go-lucky.  And  here  we 
stood  outside  The  Shoe  once  more,  having  tramped 
a  complete  circle. 

"Hullo!  I  thought  you  were  going  to  see  me 
home." 

"Well,  I'm  not — once  is  enough,  in  one  evening. 
Hush — Micky  may  be  awake."  The  shadowy 
outline  of  a  camp-bed  on  the  grass,  indicated  that 
the  youngest  Seton,  in  spite  of  his  pleadings,  was 
still  forbidden  the  luxury  of  indoor  slumber. 

After  Larry  had  swung  off  across  the  same  clover- 
field  that  had  squelched  to  our  footsteps  a  couple  of 
hours  ago,  I  turned  my  back  on  the  cottage,  and  took 
the  sea-road,  and  walked,  and  walked  in  a  drizzle 
of  rain  until  the  grey  sky  tore  into  streaks  of  amber. 

"Sh — I  say — The  mouse  is  dead." 

Ned  lounged,  an  outpost,  a  few  paces  up  the  lane, 
to  warn  all  comers. 

"Babs  is  no  end  cut  up.  And  Mater's  as  snappy 
— says  she  had  hardly  any  sleep.  So  don't  put  your 
foot  in  it." 

At  the  garden  gate,  K.  B.  Seton  furtively  waylaid 
me. 


BROKEN   CHINA  181 

"That  nasty  little  brute  died  at  2.15  A.M.  I  was 
startled  out  of  my  best  sleep  by  Barbara  hurling 
herself,  sobbing,  into  my  bed;  she  had  been 
lying  on  the  kitchen  dresser  till  then,  so  as  to  be 
sure  to  keep  awake  and  feed  it  every  two  hours." 

"That's  the  Maternal  Instinct  coming  out  in  her, 
Kate." 

"I'd  rather  it  didn't,  then,  at  unholy  hours  of  the 
night.     You'd  better  not  mention  his  name." 

I  made  a  slip:  "Larry's?" 

"Nebuchadnezzar,  of  course — don't  be  a  fool.  I 
can't  stand  it  in  my  present  state  of  temper." 

Snubbed,  I  walked  on;  ori  the  very  threshold 
of  the  kitchen  I  was  confronted  by  a  portentous 
Micky. 

"Neb's  dead,"  in  whispered  warning.  "Sh — Babs 
is  inside.     Behave  as  though  nothing  had  happened." 

I  reassured  him  as  to  my  capacity  for  behaving  as 
though  nothing  had  happened,  and  greeted  Barbara 
with  a  boisterous:  "Hullo!  I'm  starving  for  my 
breakfast — Been  for  a  long  walk  already." 

"I  thought  you  would  have  overslept  yourself,  we 
were  so  late  last  night.  .  .  ."  She  made  gallant 
effort  to  respond.  Her  eyes  were  heavy-lidded, 
and  her  lips  wan  .  .  .  poor  baby,  weeping  half  the 
night  for  Larry,  and  having  to  pretend  it  was  for  a 
field-mouse. 

Larry  appeared  late;  and  jauntily  proposed  his 
departure  the  next  day.  Nobody  commented.  I  saw 
Bar^bara's  look  flit  searchingly  from  his  face  to  mine. 


182  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

.  .  .  She  did  not  at  all  know  whether  or  not  Larry- 
had  kept  his  word  and  not  told  me,  on  our  homeward 
ramble  the  night  before,  that  she  had  told  him  what 
I  must  not  know  I  had  told. 

Nebuchadnezzar,  animals  in  general,  mice  in  par- 
ticular, death  and  funerals,  were  topics  strenuously 
tabooed  by  each  and  all  of  us,  during  breakfast. 
Then  Henry  appeared  from  the  garden,  with,  as  usual, 
a  completely  devastating  announcement: 

"The  youngest  guinea-pig  is  dead.  I  found  him 
lying  on  the  floor  of  the  hutch,  his  little  nose  blue 
and  his  little  feet  curled  up  like  this  .  .  ."  he  tried 
to  illustrate. 

Barbara  broke  down,  and  fled,  choking,  from  the 
table.  And  Mrs.  Seton  said:  "You're  not  supple 
enough  for  trapeze  acrobatics,  Henry.  Here's  your 
pilchard.     Eat  it  and  keep  quiet." 

She  confided  in  me  afterwards,  sighing  for  Henry's 
great  foolishness,  that  the  nose  and  feet  as  des- 
cribed were  exactly  Nebuchadnezzar's  attitude  in 
death. 


[12] 

Twenty-four  uncomfortable  hours  later,  I  found 
Barbara  prone  on  her  face  among  the  spongy  cushions 
of  the  sea-thrift,  fading  now  to  a  withered  brown. 

I  thought  of  the  china-shop  .  .  .  and  took  the 
bull  by  the  horns. 


BROKEN    CHINA  183 

"You'll  miss  saying  good-bye  to  Larry,  if  you  lie 
out  here." 

"Don't  care!"  in  stifled  defiance. 

"When  he  came,  you  began  supper  without  him. 
Your  welcome  was  on  the  negative  side.  You  hustled 
Ned  into  that  disgraceful  trick  of  driving  the  cart 
through  Lobb  Lane — Yes,  you  did — I  guessed  it  from 
the  start,"  I  recapitulated,  sitting  down  beside  her, 
my  back  against  a  solid  chunk  of  granite.  "You 
were  ruder  to  Larry  than  I've  ever  seen  anybody  to 
anybody ;  you  set  yourself  up  as  a  judge  of  his  private 
aff'airs ;  and  finally  you  hide  away  from  his  departure 
to  avoid  the  necessity  of  holding  his  hand  for  a 
second  or  two  ...  as  though  he  were  loathsome 
because  he  loves  you " 

"Don't!  How  dare  you,  Kevin!  I  mean,  I  don't 
want  him  to  .  .  .  that  sort  of  man!" 

"Babs,  infant  of  all  the  world,  nearly  every  sort 
of  man  is  that  sort  of  man.  I  am;  Micky  will  be, 
one  day — and  as  for  your  Prince  Charming  .  .  . 
do  you  really  dare  to  suppose,  when  you  meet,  that 
there  will  be  nothing  to  forgive  in  him?  Pah — 
it'll  be  a  hard,  dry,  blue-chilly  thing,  your  perfect 
love-aff*air — I  don't  envy  the  man." 

"You're  too  abominably  rude  for  words,"  she 
stormed  at  me.  Then  subsided  to  a  whisper  of 
amazed  contrition:  "Kev,  Kev,  how  can  you  stick 
up  for  him  .  .  .  when  it's  your  own  mother?" 

"And  how  do  you  know  that?" 

"You "   she  stopped.     Eyed  me  doubtfully. 


184  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

I  suppose  my  expression  gave  her  no  help,  for  she 

cried:     "Then  he  didnt "  and  stopped  again, 

wholly  at  a  loss. 

"Yes,  he  did." 

"Then  he's  got  no  sense  of  honour,  not  one  scrap." 

"And  what  made  you  give  me  away  to  him?"  in 
my  most  wooden  voice. 

Her  face  flamed  and  flamed.  .  .  .  "Oh,  I'm 
sorry" — piteously. 

But  I  could  not  let  her  off  yet:  "It's  the  first 
bit  of  china  wantonly  broken,  that  counts.  The  rest 
kind  of  slips  off*  the  shelf  by  itself." 

And  Barbara  might  so  easily  have  reminded  me 
here  that  it  was  I,  not  she,  responsible  for  the  original 
damage.  I  risked  that.  .  .  .  Her  sweet  mouth  set 
itself  firmly,  and  she  uttered  not  a  word. 

"Larry  didn't  tell  me,  Babs.  At  least,  he  did, 
but  only  because  he  guessed  from  the  beginning  that 
I  was — consciously  unconscious." 

I  was  gazing  rather  intently,  while  I  spoke,  at  a 
steamer  on  the  horizon.  Presently  I  heard  little 
plaintive  sounds  beside  me,  like  a  child  crying  its 
heart  out  for  very  weariness. 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  Barbara,"  sternly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want,  I  don't  want  people  to  be  so 
c-c-clever.  ...  Is  it  always  going  to  be  all  tangled 
up  like  this?"  suddenly  forlorn  and  terrified 
in  a  universe  where  her  cocksure  young  poise  and 
swinging  honesty  were  inadequate  equipment. 

"You  see,  Barbara,"  I  argued  slowly,  "your  whole 


BROKEN    CHINA  185 

attitude  towards  Larry  was  just  a  piece  of  colossal 
conceit.  From  what  standpoint  of  wisdom  and  ex- 
perience have  you  judged  and  condemned  him? 
You  haven't  even  begun  your  study  of  such  trifling 
matters  as  human  nature,  temptation,  sex,  and  so  on. 
There's  not  one  single  element  in  Larry's  past  history 
where  you  can  understand  or  criticize  or — presume 
to  be  shocked.  I  dare  say  a  lot  of  silly  little  school- 
girls have  sat  on  their  desks  and  sucked  toff*ee  and 
put  together  the  sort  of  world  which  suited  their 
stage  of  crude  ignorance — but  you  can't  expect  grown 
persons  to  inhabit  that  world  .  .  .  not  till  you 
enlarge  its  boundaries  a  bit." 

Barbara  rose  and  would  have  walked  away,  but 
I  caught  hold  of  her  wrist: 

"You  may  as  well  sit  down — I  haven't  finished 
yet." 

"You're — preaching ! " 

"I'm  not.  I'm  being  too  rude  to  preach.  I'm 
being  almost  as  rude  as  you've  been — By  God,  Bar- 
bara, I've  grown  hot  all  over  with  shame,  on 
occasions,  at  the  way  you've  treated  Larry;  hot  to 
think  that  he  should  have  to  make  allowances  for  you. 
Your  guest.  Had  you  no  sort  of  code  of  hospitality? 
Whatever  he  was,  whatever  he  is,  he  arrived  here, 
invited  by  you — ^well,  your  mother — same  thing.  By 
all  the  existing  laws,  he  was  entitled  to  common 
civility,  if  not  to  a  warm  welcome.  And — no,  I 
won't  say  you  behaved  like  a  savage,  because  savages 
are  notoriously  hospitable.     You  just — blundered! 


186  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

If  he  was  a  libertine,  he  was  your  guest.  If  he  was 
a  criminal,  he  was  your  guest.  And  if  he  was  a 
leper,  he  was  still  .  .  .  your  guest!" 

That  my  peroration  had  shaped  itself  into  a  slightly 
mutilated  version  of  the  big  dramatic  scene  from 
"Lady  Windermere's  Fan,"  hardly  mattered;  since 
my  sole  aim  was  to  produce  an  effect  upon  Barbara. 
Though  I  marvelled  again  that  throughout  such  a 
tirade,  the  girl  should  make  not  one  attempt  to  shield 
herself  by  referring  to  my  own  confessed  betrayal 
of  Larry  Munro.  I  was  prepared  to  reply,  with 
what  cold  detachment  I  could  muster,  that  I  was 
well  aware  my  act  had  placed  me  outside  the  pale  of 
decency  and  honour,  and  was  therefore  beyond  dis- 
cussion; her  blunderings,  however,  were  as  yet  re- 
trievable. 

But — could  it  be  indeed  that  Barbara  was  learn- 
ing? She  was  white  as  foam;  her  eyes  full  of  a 
hurt  perplexity  .  .  .  and  she  only  said:  "Yes — 
but — Kevin,  isrCt  there  right  and  wrong?  And  isn't 
it  up  to  a  girl  to  show  from  the  start  that  it  matters? 
.  .  .     Or  people  could  do  anything!" 

"And  the  greatest  of  these  is  tolerance"  I  mur- 
mured, plucking  up  the  dry  thrift  blossoms. 

"Charity,"  she  corrected. 

"D'you  suppose  Larry  has  any  use  for  your 
'Charity'?  The  'good  angel  who  stoops  to  forgive' 
sort  of  mush?  Charity! — it's  your  fellowship  that's 
needed — good  fellowship  that  understands,  and  might 
easily  have  done  likewise,  and  frankly  owns  it.     If 


BROKEN   CHINA  187 

all  you  can  do  is  to  forgive,  Babs — then  Larry  had 
better  pass  on." 

Again  I  waited,  apparently  engrossed  in  the 
horizon  line  .  .  .  till  a  cold,  small  hand  curled  itself 
into  my  palm. 

"Will  you  tell  me  all  about  it,  Kevin?  About 
.  .  .  your  .  .  .  mother — and  him?  Tell  me 
properly,  I  mean — and  I'll  try  to  be  a  good 
fellow." 

Well — Heaven  knows  it  was  not  easy  .  .  .  but 
I  spun  a  fairy-tale  out  of  the  pale-haired  princess  who 
lost  her  man  three  days  before  she  was  to  wed  him; 
and  ten  years  later  magically  found  him  again,  even 
younger  and  more  gallant  and  debonair  than  before. 

And  the  little  goose-girl,  sitting  in  a  heap  among 
the  sea-thrift,  right  in  the  middle  of  her  own  fairy  tale, 
listened  with  lips  parted,  and  soft  chin  tilted  upwards 
in  breathless  attention.  .  .  . 

The  steadfast  friendship  of  Prue  and  Felicity  drew 
from  her  a  quick:  "Oh,  but  how  could  they  share 
him?" 

"He  was  dead,  Barbara.     It's  not  hard  to  share  a 


dead  man 


9? 

"/    won't  .  .  ."     with     a     decisive     little    nod. 


"I  mean,  I  wouldn't,  if — and  they  shared  Larry  as 
well  as  his  father." 

"Prue  doesn't  know  that  she  has  ever  shared  her 
son  with  Felicity." 

"Then  she  ought  to  know!"  the  old  Barbara  flared 
into  being.     "Somebody  ought  to  tell  her." 


188  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

"To  make  her  unhappy?  And  to  spoil  a  thing 
beautifully  and  rarely  created  .  .  .  with  one  thrust 
of  fact?  Child,  there  are  some  lies  and  some  secrets 
that  are  wiser  than  truth,  and  sometimes  truer." 

Barbara  sighed:  "You  say  so — but  I  can't  quite 
believe  it,"  she  murmured. 

And  she  would  never  quite  believe  it,  essentially 
a  Seton  in  her  sturdy  decision  not  to  acquiesce  and 
be  tangled  into  any  phantasmal  and  intricate  con- 
spiracy towards  which  I,  fatalist,  might  beckon 
her. 

"Go  on!"  she  conunanded. 

The  later  development  of  my  tale  was  harder 
to  translate  into  simple  Barbara-language;  but  I  did 
my  best  with  Larry's  reactionary  longing  for  a  girl, 
young  and  impulsive;  young  enough  to  pick  up  sticks 
with  him  and  to  help  him  light  a  gipsy  fire  .  .  .  here 
a  puff  of  blue  wood-smoke  blew  across  the  story, 
just  in  time  to  dim  Barbara's  vision  of  Larry's 
behaviour  to  Felicity,  which  was  not  pretty  and  there- 
for hard  to  englamour.  Indeed,  I  had  for  a  long 
time  groped  in  vain  after  the  nursery-wall-paper-mood 
of  my  arrival  in  Cornwall.  Perhaps  because  I  still 
felt  it  myself  so  vividly,  did  I  cause  her  to  realize 
the  pathos  of  that  drawing-room,  with  the  absurd 
little  gold  chairs  standing  empty ;  Felicity,  in  sprigged 
muslin  and  corals,  being  vaguely  charming  and 
hospitable  to  Miss  Beech  and  Miss  Hilda  Beech.  .  .  . 

No  need  for  emphasis  here — Barbara's  neck  and 
cheeks  were  for  an  instant  a  glow  of  crimson.  .  .  . 


BROKEN   CHINA  189 

Of  the  subsequent  incident  with  the  photograph, 
I  mentioned  nothing;  there  are  some  lies  and  some 
secrets  that  are  wiser  than  truth.  .  .  . 

"And  Larry  came  to  The  Shoe  and  fotmd  Barbara." 
She  whispered:     "I  was  horrid  to  him." 
And  laconically  I  said,  "Never  mind;  the  cart  was 
to  call  for  him  at  a  quarter  to  ten;  he's  gone  by  now 
— aren't  you  glad?" 

"Aren't  you  glad"  was  sarcasm  wasted — Barbara 
was  already  on  her  feet  .  .  .  flying  up  the  white 
road  between  the  sand-hummocks.  I  reckoned  she 
would  be  at  Tremmerrith  before  ten  o'clock — and  the 
cart  was  not  due  to  call  for  Larry  until  a  quarter  to 
eleven, 

[13] 

I  am  well  aware  that  my  traditionally  noble  action 
in  bringing  about  the  engagement  of  my  rival  to  the 
girl  I  loved  myself,  ought  to  have  lifted  me  to  the 
traditional  mood  of  pale  exultation;  a  mood  half- 
humorous,  semi-wistful,  demi-tender:  "I'm  so  glad, 
Larry,  old  man,  about  you  and  Barbara — ^why  yes, 
really  glad — could  you  doubt  it?"  and  then  the 
traditional  exit  into  the  night  or  on  to  the  scaffold — 
the  example  of  Sydney  Carton  is  responsible  for 
much. 

But  not,  thank  goodness,  for  me,  at  this  juncture. 

The  sight  of  the  happy,  handsome  pair  bounding, 
light  of  heel,  through  a  solar  system  which  obviously 


190  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

belonged  to  them  and  where  the  rest  of  us  were  just 
admitted  on  sufferance,  reduced  me  to  a  state  of  out- 
ward ill-humour  and  mental  savagery  that  did  me 
credit  as  a  human  being  and  not  a  god  of  abstract 
benevolence. 

Any  impulse  to  friendliness  that  I  may  have  felt 
for  Larry  dejected,  unsuccessful  with  Barbara,  and 
solitary  in  battle  against  the  united  Setons,  was  in- 
stantaneously metamorphosed  into  the  old  sick  hatred 
— a  degree  worse  than  ever — for  the  new  Larry.  His 
quick  perceptions  reacted  instantly  to  my  dogging 
envy  and  begrudgement.  And  now,  in  the  after-light 
of  our  discussion,  I  beheld  clearly  how  the  young 
ruffian  took  conscious  pleasure  in  provoking  my  self- 
control  to  the  utmost,  by  subtle  parade  of  his  happi- 
ness; why,  his  every  poise,  his  every  gesture  and 
remark  and  inflexion,  wryly  drew  together  the  palate 
of  my  soul  .  .  .  and  he  knew  it!  I  marvelled  that 
I  could  ever  have  been  dense  enough  to  imagine  him 
oblivious.  I  was  something  less  than  man  just 
now — mere  incarnate  resentment  of  his  very  right  to 
existence.  Was  my  presence  in  any  wise  rasping  his 
smooth  days?  I  was  afraid  not — they  were  beyond 
my  jealous  reach.  And:  "You  did  it  yourself! 
Yah!  yah!  yah!  You  did  it  yourself" — the  gnome- 
chorus  again,  jeering  and  pointing.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  had 
done  it  myself,  beyond  a  doubt;  but  not  for  Larry's 
sake  nor  for  Barbara's;  conscience  demanded  to  be 
squared  over  that  delirium  business,  that  was  all. 


THE   CHINA   SHOP  191 

My  fool's  tongue  had  committed  an  error  which  re- 
quired for  only  adequate  atonement  my  scene  with 
Barbara  on  the  morning  of  Larry's  proposed  depar- 
ture. .  .  .  "You  did  it  yourself — yah!  yah!  yah! 
did  it  yourself." 

I  arranged  with  what  precipitation  self-respect  per- 
mitted, to  be  recalled  to  London.  Kate  spoke  no 
word  to  detain  me — it  was  blatantly  unnecessary  that 
both  Larry  and  I  should  stop  on  at  The  Shoe;  but  she 
seemed  grieved,  nevertheless,  at  destiny's  choice;  she 
never  cared  violently  for  Larry,  and  all  his  charm 
could  not  win  her;  though  she  was  relieved,  I  think, 
that  the  "fast  young  man"  should  have  meant  so 
honourably  by  Barbara;  and  glad,  it  is  certain,  that 
Barbara  was  to  be  married.  What  she  had  feared, 
on  my  disclosure,  was  a  summer  flirtation — exit 
Larry  whistling — daughter,  broken-hearted,  and  with 
consumption,  left  permanently  under  her  mother's 
roof. 

[14] 

"Off  today,  Kev?  I  hadn't  realized  it.  I  shall 
miss  you." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  It's  not  so  much  fun  to  exhibit 
when  I'm  not  there." 

"Excuse  me — ^when  you're  not  there  I've  no 
desires  that  way.  A  certain  aspect  of  your  person- 
ality evokes — exhibition.  It  annoys  you  to  see  me 
happy,  doesn't  it,  Kev?" 


192  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

"I'd  rather  see  you  .  .  .  dead  than  happy  V  And 
till  I  had  actually  burst  out  with  this,  I  had  not 
known  it  to  be  true.     I  knew  now.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  Larry  was  momentarily 
sobered. 

"Yes — I'm  afraid  I  do."  I  sat  down  on  a  boulder 
of  rock  and  bowed  my  head  on  to  my  hands.  .  .  . 
Presently  I  looked  up  again  at  Larry;  his  eyes  were 
troubled. 

"Well?" 

"You'll  go  mad  one  day  about  me,"  he  fore- 
told  abruptly. 

"I  suppose  so.  Perhaps  I'm  mad  already.  It 
isn't  only  you,  it's  your  father  and  your  son  .  .  . 
the  dynasty  ...  I  may  still  have  to  see  your  son's 
son.  There  are  so  many  of  you — Larry  Munro. 
I'm  shut  up  in  the  world  with  you  and  can't  get 
away.  .  .  ." 

"Feeling  like  this,  why  did  you  put  things  right 
for  me  with  Barbara?" 

"It  happens  I  had  to  put  things  right  for  me  with 
myself;  d'you  imagine  you  had  anything  to  do  with 
it?"  I  growled. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  return  the  act  of  sacrifice  by 
offering  to  yield  her  up  to  you." 

"Only  that  she's  a  sentient  thing  of  pulse  and 
heart-beatings — not  to  be  handed  about  between  us 
like  a  bale  of  goods." 

Larry's  smile  was  baffling:  "Why  not  wreck  my 


BROKEN   CHINA  193 

cause  by  telling  her  about  ...  the  kids?  Another 
spasm  of  delirium " 

"Thank  you."  The  burning  shame  stung  my  fore- 
head. After  a  pause,  I  forced  myself  to  discussion 
of  the  incident  which  had  lain  between  us  all  this 
while  more  or  less  inert;  since  Larry  wanted  to 
punish  me  for  it  by  open  speech,  he  might  as  well  do 
so  before  I  left  Cornwall: 

"It's  rather  odd,  though,  isn't  it,  that  Barbara 
should  have  relied  so  absolutely  on  the  truth  of  what 
was  to  her  a  phrase  let  fall  in  delirium?" 

"Oh  well,  you  repeated  it  and  amplified  it  and 
insisted  upon  it  so  often  in  your  second  bout  of 
raving " 

"My — second — bout.  What  do  you  mean?  Larry, 
what  do  you  mean?" 

He  appeared  genuinely  astonished.  "Then  you 
were  really  unconscious  .  .  .  after  the  first  give- 
away? I'm  sorry,  Kev;  I  thought  you  knew  what 
you  were  about  all  the  time." 

The  inside  of  my  head  was  grinding  red-hot 
machinery  ...  I  wrenched  it  to  coherent  recollec- 
tion .  .  .  "Larry's  mistress  is  my  mother" — and  be- 
fore that  and  after  that,  it  had  been  endless  pas- 
sages between  high  black  walls,  sand  under  the  run- 
ning foot,  Larry  behind  me  with  a  grotesque  bladder 
swung  aloft.  So  after  that  one  lucid  interval,  I  had 
unconsciously  betrayed  again  and  again  the  secret  I 
had  so  longed  to  betray  unconsciously.     My  remorse 


194  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

was  for  nothing — and  my  atonement.  I  need  not  have 
influenced  Barbara  into  making  Larry  happy — I  was 
not  guilty  of  treachery;  since  the  main  treachery  had 
occurred  when  will  and  reason  were  wholly 
irresponsible.     I  need  not — I  need  not 

"What's  the  joke,  Kev?" 

...  I  discovered  that  I  was  laughing.  And 
stopped.  And  silently  contemplated  Larry,  whom  I 
had  made  happy.  .  .  . 

"Look  here,  old  man,  if  you  want  to  pitch  me  over 
the  cliff",  do  it  now  and  quickly.  You  may  not  get 
another  chance,  as  you're  leaving  today.  It  would 
be  awkward  if  the  desire  came  over  you  as  strongly  in 
— the  Cromwell  Road,  let's  say,  where  there  are  no 
facilities." 

"Only,"  he  went  on,  "stop  looking  murder  at  me 
.  .  .  it's  uncomfortable." 

I  got  up  and  walked  away  inland,  Larry  beside  me, 
chatting  pleasantly: 

"Afraid  of  the  temptation?  But  what  a  successful 
ghost  I'd  be,  howling  and  moaning  round  your 
pillow  after  you  had  married  Babs.  .  .  . 

"  'Yes,  lad,  I  lie  easy, 

I  lie  as  men  would  choose; 

I  cheer  a  dead  man's  sweetheart, 

Never  ask  me  whose!'  .  .  . 

Or — no — what  was  the  special  stunt  of  Hamlet's 
father?  I'd  appear  to  young  Larrikin  and  exhort 
him  to  make  a  painful  end  of  you,  with  Felicity  in 


BROKEN   CHINA  195 

the  part  of  Ophelia.  .  .  .  There's  something  wrong 
with  that,  somewhere." 

"There  is  indeed.  Have  you  thought  yet  of  telling 
Felicity  about  your  engagement?" 

"Won't  you,  Kev?" 

"Do  your  own  filthy  work." 

"But  I'm  so  clumsy  and  you're  so  tactful,"  he 
wheedled. 

I  halted,  smitten  by  a  sudden  idea:  "You've  let 
Prue  know?" 

"The  mater?  Yes.  Of  course.  Heard  from  her 
yesterday.  She's  awfully  pleased.  Barbara's  just 
the  sort  of  girl " 

"5/ie7/  tell  Felicity,  so  you  needn't  worry  any 
further.  She'll  expect  her  to  take  a  maternal  interest 
in  the  engagement." 

"M'yes.  Yes,  I  suppose  so."  Larry's  outrageous 
buoyancy  was  checked  for  the  moment.  "But  Fel 
will  go  down  to  Thyme  Croft,  where  the  kiddies  are, 
before  I  come  back  and  bring  Babs  back  to  the 
mater." 

"Funny  that  I  shouldn't  have  jumbled  in  the  kid- 
dies when  I  fell  a-raving  again." 

"Oh,  you  did.  But  you  fortunately  omitted  to 
mention  where  they  connected  with  the  main  line. 
Babs  must  have  supposed  'Larrikin'  was  me. 
She  asked  if  I'd  ever  known — or  loved,  in  brackets — 
any  one  called  'Yo'?  So  I  used  up  the  cue  for  the 
incident   of   the   flapper   in   the   Cafe   Royal — ^you 


196  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

remember?  Her  name  happened  to  be  Peggy,  but 
stiU " 

I  considered  this  quite  an  unnecessary  complica- 
tion, though  trivial.     And  told  him  so. 

"Oh,  where's  the  harm?  Babs  wanted  a  con- 
fession, so  I  gave  her  one  ready-made — bless  her! 
I  didn't  quite  know  how  to  account  for  Yo,  otherwise." 

"She's  hardly  accounted  for  now,  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  word.     Nor  Larrikin  either." 

He  sighed  impatiently,  "My  good  man,  I  owe  you 
more  than  my  life,  but  I  consider  you  both  a  bore  and 
a  prig.  They've  got  a  mother  who  adores  them;  and 
who  has  great  wealth " 

"Thanks  to  my  father."  I  could  not  resist  the 
return  thrust  for  his  "bore  and  a  prig."  If  I  had 
murdered  him,  as  a  few  seconds  ago  was  highly 
possible,  he  might  have  called  me  any  name  under 
\he  sun — ^but  not  a  bore,  certainly.  This  was  all 
the  thanks  my  forbearance  received.  I  complained 
of  it.  .  .  .  He  interrupted  me,  "I'm  enjoying  our 
chat  tremendously,  Kev,  but  you'll  be  late  for  your 
train.  As  the  darling  of  all  the  Setons,  they'll  want 
to  make  you  the  object  of  lengthy  good-byes." 

I  could  have  dispensed  with  Barbara's  embrace 
.  .  .  but  she  meant  well.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Larry's 
deliberately  cool  and  ungrateful  attitude  best  suited 
the  demands  of  my  temper,  for  the  moment.  K.  B. 
Seton  sorrowed  visibly  at  my  departure;  and  dropped 
her  last  imperceptible  hint  by  remarking,  with  a  warm 
squeeze  of  my  hands,  and  a  reproachful  look  at  Larry 


BROKEN    CHINA  197 

and  Barbara,  that  certain  matters  had  not  turned  out 
in  the  least  as  she  had  originally  hoped. 

Micky  drove  me  into  St.  Catts.  He  had  claimed 
the  right  to  do  so.  Among  the  gifts  I  seemed  acci- 
dentally to  have  won  for  myself  while  occupied  in  a 
totally  different  direction,  was  Micky's  passionate 
loyalty  and  devotion.  Which  rendered  me  proud  and 
yet  sorrowful;  undeserving  as  a  Stuart  might  have 
felt  towards  an  adherent  of  his  lost  cause.  He  was 
distinctly  public-school  boy  during  the  drive,  and  as 
we  paced  the  platform;  remaining  so  until  I  leant 
from  the  window  of  my  compartment  to  thank  him 
politely  for  his  safe  conduct.  Then  he  said,  with  an 
effort : 

"Good-bye.   Rotten  it  was  Larry  .  .  .  and  not  you." 

.  .  .  But  I  was  being  carried  away  from  Larry, 
space  between  us  widening  and  stretching  with  every 
forward  leap  of  the  express.  Larry  was  left  behind 
me  in  Cornwall — Cornwall — ^had  I  indeed  once 
thought  of  that  packed  darkness  of  happenings,  as  an 
escape  from  reality  into  enchantment? 

Cornwall  meant  Larry's  letter;  and  the  arrival  of 
Larry;  and  a  whole  family  speaking,  thinking,  hating, 
loving,  obsessed  by  Larry;  and  Larry's  white  sweater 
sharp-cut  against  the  sombre  rock  archway;  and 
Larry's  insolent,  oblique  eyes  as  he  said,  "Why  not 
study  the  art  of  welcoming  a  guest?";  and  Larry 
whistling  the  Spring  Song  to  Barbara;  and  Larry 
walking  beside  me  across  dark,  warm  clover-fields,  "I 
knew   that,    too"  .  .  .  and    Larry,    the    triumphant 


198  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

wooer,  standing  in  a  group  of  Setons  at  the  gate  of 
The  Shoe,  watching  me  drive  off.  .  .  . 

Devon  now,  and  everywhere  clumps  of  foxgloves 
empurpling  the  woods  with  their  delicate  spotted 
trumpets.  But  further  on  these  would  give  way 
to  rows  of  bunched-up  little  houses  new  and  hectic,  or 
else  resigned  to  their  sallow  hue,  heralding  London's 
approach — my  final  escape  from  reality  into  enchant- 
ment. ...  By  then  I  would  have  left  Larry  far 
behind  me  in  Cornwall.  Restlessly  I  shifted  my  seat 
from  one  window-comer  to  another — the  carriage  was 
empty.  But  on  this  side  were  fresh  battalions  of 
foxgloves,  vivid  where  the  afternoon  sun  slanted 
dustily  between  the  larch-stems.  .  .  .  How  I  loathed 
the  west-country  for  its  easy  loveliness;  longed  for 
the  dingy  litle  houses.  .  .  . 

"And  you  say  she's  a  nice  girl,  Kevin?" 

"Oh,  thoroughly  nice." 

Prue  beamed  at  me  affectionately;  "I  hoped  you 
would  say  so.  Larry,  of  course,  has  written  me  a 
pack  of  rubbish  about  her,  but  as  you're  not  in  love 
with  her,  I  can  take  your  word  for  it  better  than  his." 

Such  cheap  irony  as  this  could  not  be  accorded 
even  a  sardonic  grin.  ...  I  remained  mentally 
rigid. 

"Such  a  pity  she  has  a  writer  mother.  .  .  ." 

Felicity,  sitting  beside  us  under  the  sycamore  in 
Prue's  garden,  interrupted  fretfully: 

"Larry  can  always  retaliate  with  an  actor  father!" 


BROKEN    CHINA  199 

"Oh,  my  dear,  he  made  a  dreadful  husband!  never 
at  home,  and  not  caring  a  bit  when  I  had  chilblains, 
though  he  was  always  ready  enough  to  have  his  chest 
rubbed  and  poulticed." 

It  was  not  often  that  Prue  allowed  herself  to  be 
betrayed  into  comment  on  the  first  Larry  Munro; 
but  when  she  did  dip  into  the  store  of  memories  so 
sacredly  enwinded,  it  was  usually  to  bring  forth  an 
incident  of  so  astoundingly  practical  a  nature  as  com- 
pelled marvel  that  musing  on  them  should  light  her 
droll  little  face  to  such  beauty. 

"Oh,  but  next  time  you  have  them,  remind  me 
to  hunt  up  that  perfectly  wonderful  recipe  for  chil- 
blains that  Lady  Barclay  gave  me  last  winter;  only  I 
never  get  them."  And  indeed  it  was  as  incredible  to 
imagine  Felicity  with  chilblains  in  winter,  as  Prue 
without  them!  "Or  was  it  that  mushroom  entree  I 
asked  for  at  her  dinner-party?"  Felicity  went  on. 
Then,  lazily  vindictive,  "Larry  will  be  exactly  the 


same." 


"We've  brought  him  up  better  than  that."  Prue's 
smile  deliberately  included  her  friend  in  the  "we" 
.  .  .  and  Felicity  twitched  her  chair  deeper  into  the 
shade.  She  suffered  from  the  other  woman's 
assumption  that  as  a  matter  of  course  the  joyous 
details  of  Larry's  engagement  concerned  them  both, 
and  in  equal  measure,  maternally;  suffered,  and  could 
utter  no  sound.  ...  I  said  quickly: 

"If  you  could  see  K.  B.  Seton  sternly  yet  amiably 
bargaining  for  a  pair  of  rabbits,  and  always  getting 


200  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

the  best  of  it,  you'd  never  dream  she  was  a  novelist," 
contesting  Prue's  contempt  for  the  writer-mother. 

"Good  thing  too.  Then  she'll  have  taught  the 
child  to  feed  a  man  sensibly,  and  not  on  cocoa  and 
buns  and  tinned  fish — I  know  what  girls  are  nowa- 
days! I  expect,  though,  there'll  be  fuss  and  tears 
bye-and-bye  at  parting  with  her  only  daughter — and 
not  yet  eighteen!  she  probably  hoped  to  keep  her  at 
home  a  good  six  years  still." 

I  grinned  into  my  pipe,  well  pleased  with  a  private 
vision  of  Kate's  dismay  at  any  prospect  of  retaining 
her  daughter  at  home  for  another  six  months. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Seton's  not  sentimental." 

"Neither  am  I  sentimental,"  said  Prue  super- 
fluously; "but  it's  a  bit  of  a  twist  to  give  up  that 
young  scapegrace  of  mine,  even  to  such  a  nice,  suita- 
ble girl;  though,  mind,  I  wouldn't  let  anybody  know  it 
but  you  two ;  I've  no  patience  with  the  sort  of  mother- 
in-law  who  makes  a  song-and-dance  and  to-do  all 
about  a  widow  bereft  of  her  only  joy,  till  the  poor  girl 
feels  worse  than  a  burglar.  Why,  I've  invited  Bar- 
bara to  stay  with  me  for  a  fortnight  in  September 
when  they  come  back  to  Town;  and  I'm  looking  for- 
ward to  it  immensely.  I  dare  say  there  are  lots  of 
little  household  things  I  can  teach  her,  without  being 
too  brusque  about  it.  When  it  comes  to  facts,  a  writer 
is  only  a  writer,  rabbits  or  not!" 

Felicity  rose,  pushed  back  a  weary  hand  through 
the  soft  amber  flop  of  her  hair,  "That  sounds  immoral, 


BROKEN   CHINA  201 

Prue  darling — ^no,  I  don't  know  why,  I  suppose  it's 
the  rabbits  .  .  .  rabbits  do  always  convey  that  idea, 
don't  they?  .  .  .  I'll  send  you  over  that  recipe  for 
the  mushroom  entree  at  once — didn't  you  say  you 
wanted  it  in  time  for  a  dinner-party?  I  must  go  now; 
I'm  expecting  some  people  to  tea." 

"Anybody  I  know?  What  a  lot  you  entertain 
lately,  Felicity!  it  must  come  so  expensive  when  you 
reckon  it  up." 

"I  never  do." 

"And  you  get  nothing  for  it  in  the  end." 

"You  get  nothing  for  anything  in  the  end,  do  you, 
Kevin?  Thank  God,  I  have  a  son  who  is  a  cynic  and 
an  unbeliever." 

She  so  rarely  called  me  her  son,  or  even  casually 
referred  to  our  relationship,  that  my  heart  throbbed 
quickly. 

"Sorry  to  hear  it.  If  Kevin  is  a  misanthropist, 
it's  because  he  hasn't  enough  work  to  do." 

"  'Misanthropist'  is  very  pleasant,"  I  murmured. 
"And  I've  had  two  briefs  since  Christmas." 

"Oh— is  that  a  lot?" 

But  Prue's  delicate  snort  signified  that  she  was 
exactly  aware  how  many  briefs  per  week  were  the  due 
of  a  successful  barrister,  and  that  she  regarded  Felic- 
ity's question  as  feeble-minded. 

"  Who  did  you  say  you  were  expecting?" 

"People  ...  I  don't  know  their  names.  A 
sister  and  two  brothers  and  another  girl — They  all 


202  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

share  a  studio  and  give  dancing-lessons.  .  .  .  No, 
let  me  see — I  think  it  was  a  brother  and  two  sisters 
and  another  man.  They  seem  quite  charming 
anyhow,  and  asked  if  they  might  call.  They  wear 
jumpers  with  that  curious  draught-board  effect.  .  .  . 
Are  you  coming  in  too,  Kevin?     Do!" 

"Think  I  ought  to  be  exposed  to  the  dangers  of  a 
draught-board  effect?"  I  hoisted  myself  with  appar- 
ent unwillingness  out  of  the  deck  chair  .  .  .  but  it 
really  did  seem,  since  my  return  from  Porthgollan,  as 
though  Felicity  were  slightly  less  indifferent  to  my 
presence  than  of  yore. 

"Come  in  again  soon,  Kevin;  I  want  to  hear  all  that 
you  can  tell  me  about  my  future  daughter-in-law. 
.  .  ."  and  suddenly,  Prue  added,  in  what  was  for  her 
a  tone  of  sheer  passion:  "Larry  must  be  made 
happy." 

Felicity,  trailing  downwards  from  a  slender  height 
to  receive,  as  wontedly,  an  affectionate  peck  on  the 
cheek,  drew  back  .  .  .  her  look  at  me  was  appealing, 
and  at  the  same  time  dimly  appreciative  of  humour 
in  the  situation. 

But  she  asked  me  no  questions  about  Barbara, 
then  or  ever. 

Felicity's  life,  as  it  appeared  to  me  during  the 
next  two  or  three  months,  continued  to  be  a  scattered 
and  perplexing  pageant  of  charming  young  people 
whose  names  she  did  not  know.  .  .  .  Unable  to 
find  youth  within  her,  she  was  clutching  feverishly 
at  youth  outside — as  though  a  sick  soul  could  better 


BROKEN   CHINA  203 

its  condition  by  picking  primroses — ^holding  it  for  an 
instant — letting  it  go,  perhaps  in  realization  of  the 
futility  of  such  contact  .  .  .  again  in  panic  at  her 
slackened  grasp,  laying  hold  of  another  fleeting  figure 
in  the  dance — the  same? — diff'erent? — what  matter? 
They  were  all  alike.  .  .  .  "Was  it  you  last  time? 
Oh  dear,  I  thought — but  never  mind,  do  come  in  .  .  . 
this  is  such  good  fun!" 

The  drawing-room  had  altered  its  character;  the 
little  gold  chairs  were  no  longer  empty,  as  in  Felicity's 
transition  stage  from  entertaining  her  guests,  to  "rag- 
ging" with  them.  But  that  subtle  quality  of  stateli- 
ness  and  wit  and  courtesy  blended;  the  reposeful 
feeling  of  duration  and  leisure,  of  one  generation 
assembled  and  in  harmony,  were  all  so  much  of  the 
past  as  to  be  less  than  the  phantoms  I  had  thought 
them  when  the  gold  chairs  were  vacant.  Felicity's 
house  reminded  me  now  of  a  hostelry  where  a  crowd 
of  ill-mannered  jesters  tumbled  their  hectic  exits  and 
entrances  at  all  hours  in  the  twenty -four;  callously 
unaware  of  their  hostess  save  in  spurts  of  fascinated 
attention.  Indeed,  it  would  have  been  strange  if  they, 
with  their  sharp,  high-coloured  edges,  had  fully 
understood  her  pearliness,  her  misty  brilliance,  the 
haunted  sub-cry  in  her  talk,  as  of  a  bell  incessantly 
pealing,  pealing,  fathoms  imder  ocean.  Nor  could 
they  quite  grasp  what  she  wanted  of  them;  nor  why 
she  invited  them  so  profusely,  and  muddled  the  dates 
and  times,  and  blurred  her  appointments,  and  begged 
them  to  bring  their  friends,  and  let  them  all  slip  for- 


204  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

gotten  in  a  fresh  elusive  quest  after  some  fresh  person- 
ality with  fresh  aims  and  excitements;  and  left  that 
phase  unfinished,  returning  to  seek  what  she  had 
recently  lost  .  .  .  and  so  lost  the  new  victim  and  the 
old  alike  .  .  .  replaced  them  threefold,  plagued  and 
fearful  of  missing  one  atom  of  the  unessential,  in 
her  being's  vague  quest  for  essential  rest  and  deep 
content;  all  the  while  collecting  more  and  more  and 
ever  more  human  turmoil  around  her — let's  all  he 
young  together! 

Oh,  my  dear,  why  not  get  old  and  be  still  adorable? 
don't  struggle  like  this.  While  you  play  rough-and- 
tumble  with  these  noisy  babes  you  have  gathered 
round  you,  Prue,  next  door,  is  already  busy  with 
sensible  socks  for  her  grandchildren  ...  it  is  her 
way  of  dreaming.  .  .  . 

But  Felicity  faintly  ridiculous,  was  to  me  always 
the  Felicity  most  to  be  loved.  .  .  . 

[15] 

While  still  at  Porthgollan,  Larry  received  orders 
from  his  firm  to  go  to  Scotland  for  three  or  four 
months,  to  overlook  some  machinery  in  the  process  of 
erection.  He  could  not  afford,  even  for  love's  sake, 
to  neglect  his  career;  his  financial  condition  was 
far  inferior  to  mine,  who  had  inherited  a  tolerably 
comfortable  income  from  my  father  Gilbert  Somers. 
So,  grumbling,  he  went. 

When  he  returned  to  London,  in  September, 
Felicity  was  away  at  Thyme  Croft;  and  Barbara  had 


BROKEN   CHINA  205 

just  arrived  on  her  fortnight's  visit  to  his  mother. 

"Larry  and  Barbara  are  in  the  garden,"  whispered 
Wentworth,  when  I  called  one  evening — why  I  can- 
not say. 

"Remarkable!"  I  retorted  irritably — but  I  might 
have  known  the  little  man  would  treat  the 
affair  as  a  Royal  Betrothal.  "Hullo,  Prue  dear, 
how's  the  daughter-in-law  shaping?" 

Barbara,  it  seems,  had  found  favour;  I  learnt  that 
she  was  a  well-mannered,  healthy,  unaffected  girl; 
high  spirited,  of  course — one  expected  that,  but  with 
no  morbid,  die-away  rubbish  about  her;  she 
showed  a  pretty  deference  towards  Wentworth, 
and  was  willing  to  learn  whatsoever  Prue  had  to  teach 
her:  "Look  at  this  patch,"  displaying  a  pair  of 
worn  grey  pants  to  my  shocked  gaze;  "I  showed  her 
how  to  put  it  on  this  morning,  and  she's  done  it  very 
nicely  indeed." 

"My  dear  Prue,  do  you  really  think  that  you  ought 
— that  she  ought — I  mean  ...  do  you  consider  it's 
quite — after  all,  she's  only  eighteen." 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Kevin!"  Prue's  cheeks  were 
like  two  bright  red  apples — "Of  course  these  are 
Wentworth's  ...  do  you  suppose  for  a  moment  I 
would  let  her  learn  on  Larry's?" 

I  was  informed  that  the  wedding  was  settled  for 
the  early  spring — how  appropriate  to  Barbara! — and 
that  Larry  had  wonderfully  improved  and  settled 
down  since  his  engagement:  "Would  you  like  me  to 
call  them  in?" 


206  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

"God  forbid!  The  spectacle  would  bore  me  to 
tears.  Any  message  for  Felicity?  I'm  running 
down  there  for  the  week-end." 

"She's  staying  a  long  time  at  that  cottage  of  hers; 
is  she  still  alone  there?" 

"Not  she;  people  all  the  time." 

Prue's  expression  showed  her  both  offended  and 
worried,  as  she  always  was  at  any  mention  of  the 
retreat  to  which  she  was  never  invited. 

"Wentworth,  that  child  has  thin  stockings  on,  I 
noticed  them  at  supper;  and  these  September  nights 
are  chilly.     Call  her  in." 

They  were  duly  called  in. 

The  demure  and  rapt  demeanour  of  Babs  and  Larry 
nowadays,  denied  possibility  that  they  had  ever  quar- 
relled more  ferociously  than  the  proverbial  Kilkenny 
cats.  Nowadays,  they  were  as  futile  and  as  lacking 
in  personality  as  any  other  idiots  in  their  condi- 
tion. ...  I  inquired  tenderly  after  Micky,  and  de- 
parted. 

Barbara's  fortnight  with  Prue  lengthened  to  a 
month  and  to  six  weeks — Kate  was  obviously  in  no 
hurry  to  call  her  home;  and  as  long.  Felicity's  exile 
lasted.  I  was  frequently  at  Thyme  Croft;  the  third 
of  the  dynasty  welcomed  me  with  joyous  shouts.  .  .  . 
In  whimsical  contradiction  to  the  laws  of  Wicked 
Step-brother,  which  demanded  that  I  should  at  least 
smother  him  with  pillows.  Larrikin  and  I  were  quite 
good  pals;  he  was  a  pleasant  small  boy,  thin,  with  a 


BROKEN    CHINA  207 

long  upper  lip  and  tiny  pointed  ears,  resembling  more 
closely  Larry  Munro  his  grandfather  than  Larry 
Munro  his  father;  his  eyes,  of  course,  were  hazel- 
green,  roguishly  inset;  and  his  ways  were  the  well- 
known  ways  of  all  the  Larrys. 

"Larrikin,  bring  me  that  green  vase."  Felicity 
stood  at  the  French  window,  her  arms  full  of  garden 
flowers,  her  gaze  adoring  this  son  of  hers.  .  .  . 

Larrikin,  aged  five,  conveyed  by  his  expression  that 
he  had  not  quite  caught  the  purport  of  his  mother's 
request,  but  that  it  was  probably  of  no  importance. 

"The  green  vase,  darling." 

Larrikin  suddenly  had  never  heard  of  a  green  vase. 
His  obstinate  shoulders  curved  yet  more  obstinately 
over  the  combined  train-boat-motor  in  which  I  worked 
my  way  as  stoker-mate-and-under-chauffeur. 

"Larry  dear,  I  spoke  to  you.  No,  don't  get  it, 
Kevin;  he  must  use  his  intelligence."  Felic- 
ity decided,  once  a  fortnight  or  thereabouts,  that  she 
would  unexpectedly  try  stem  systems  of  education 
on  the  children. 

"Now,  Larry,  bring  me  the  green  vase;  it's  on  the 
mantelpiece." 

Sighing  wearily,  he  fetched  the  waste-paper  basket 
and  tendered  it  to  her  upside  down. 

"No — not  that — don't  be  foolish.  You  know  what 
green  is?     The  grass  is  green.  ..." 

Yes,  he  knew  that. 

"And  you  know  what  a  vase  is?     One  puts  flowers 


208  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

in    a   vase,    and    water,    so    that   they    don't    die." 

A  vivid  intelligence  dawned  in  the  uplifted  eyes — 
obviously  Larry  knew  what  a  vase  was. 

"Then" — Felicity  enunciated  slowly — "bring — 
me — the — green — vase." 

Larrikin  brought  her  a  black  velvet  cat  belonging 
to  Yo. 

The  lesson  went  on.  I  sprawled  in  the  middle 
of  overturned  table,  umbrella-masts,  and  string-work, 
and  thoroughly  enjoyed  myself.  Gradually  the 
entire  contents  of  the  room  were  piled  up  round 
Felicity  .  .  .  till,  by  a  process  of  elimination, 
nothing  was  left  for  transport  save  the  green  vase. 
Then  Larrikin  brought  her  the  green  vase,  and  she 
said  to  me — or  to  God — one  could  never  quite  tell — 
that  it  just  proved  one  must  always  work  on  a  child's 
intelligence. 

But  Larry  the  third  reminded  me  poignantly  of 
Larry  the  second  during  this  scene.  ...  No 
wickeder  or  more  exasperating  little  scamp  ever  tod- 
dled this  earth — save  one. 

Yolande  was  a  different  type  altogether;  a  throw- 
back to  some  forgotten  ancestor.  You  described  her 
best  by  the  word  "farouche."  Her  short  mop 
of  yellow  hair  fell  heavily  to  her  eyebrows,  even 
sometimes  obscuring  her  eyes;  it  was  enormously 
thick  and  strong,  like  a  young  lion's  mane.  Her 
mouth  was  sullen,  and  for  the  most  part  mute.  Yet 
all  at  once,  the  child  could  cast  off  her  enmuffling 
silences,  and  be  fascinating,  irresistible  even  .  .  . 


BROKEN   CHINA  209 

occasionally  she  would  reward  me  with  such  a  mood, 
when  I  told  her  jungle  and  desert  stories — her 
favourite  variety.  But  the  beast  had  always  to 
triumph  over  the  traveller  and  explorer,  to  suit  Yo; 
not  because  he  was  a  bad  man  and  deserved  to  be 
eaten — I  would  not  have  dared  insert  such  boresome 
morality — ^but  because  Yo  frankly  preferred  four  feet 
to  two.  Insensibly  we  fell  into  the  habit  of  acting 
these  stories  as  they  were  being  told.  ...  Yo  dis- 
played a  talent  for  prowling  and  ramping  that  was 
positively  uncanny.  Though  silent  and  heavy-lidded, 
she  did  not  in  the  least  belong  to  that  variety  of 
demure  little  bookworm  with  gentle  ways,  beloved 
of  Victorian  writers  of  children's  fiction;  she  ab- 
horred reading,  and  her  self-invented  games  were  all 
boisterous  and  even  thrilling.  I  had  an  easier 
time  as  a  slave  in  Larrikin's  galley,  than  as  the 
human  hero  in  a  tiger-hunt  stage-managed  by  Yo. 
With  Felicity  she  was  haughtily  aloof;  nor  could  I 
discover  then  if  this  attitude  concealed  love  unre- 
quited, or  not. 

Felicity  was — I  must  say  it — an  absolute  ass  in 
her  behaviour  with  Yo;  she  used  to  quarrel  with  this 
fierce  little  atom  as  though  it  were  an  adult  and  a 
contemporary.  I  remember  an  occasion  when 
accidentally  she  ate  off  Yolande's  own  special 
pictured  plate,  and  Yo,  a  natural  baby  for  once, 
lifted  up  her  voice  and  protested,  stretched  out  her 
hand  and  snatched;  .  .  .  Felicity,  incomprehensible 
as  it  may  seem,  was  genuinely — offended:  "I  do  think 


210  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

it  silly  and  selfish  of  her  to  mind  so  much!"  .  .  . 
They  resented  each  other  for  days,  over  that  in- 
cident. 

But  to  Larrikin,  his  mother  was  all  that  she  had 
once  been  to  the  small  Larry  Munro,  and  more.  Him 
also  she  treated  as  an  equal — but  she  was  child  to 
his  child  .  .  .  adoring  him,  romping  with  him, 
passionately  encircling  him  from  harm.  .  .  . 
Larry's  son;  flesh  and  blood  of  his  flesh  and  blood; 
treasure  of  which,  years  ago,  kneeling  beside  a  dead 
man's  bed,  she  had  thought  herself  irrevocably 
cheated.     Larry's  son.  .  .  . 

"Get  into  my  train,  Muwer!" 

"Certainly,  Guard.  What  time  does  it  go?  Oh, 
now  directly;  I  see — Well,  reserve  me  a  comer  seat, 
and  oh,  porter,"  recognizing  me  with  ticket-puncher 
and  cap  several  sizes  too  small,  "bring  along  the 
lunch-basket!" 

"Tain't  my  job,"  I  argued  stolidly.  But  Larrikin 
would  allow  no  false  pride  among  his  employees, 
and  straightway  robbed  me  oJp  the  ticket-puncher 
and  my  highest  privilege,  and  sent  me  along  to  fetch 
Felicity's  luggage  on  a  truck;  then,  recognizing 
that  there  were  elements  of  fun  in  this  also,  hastily 
punched  her  ticket,  bereft  me  of  the  truck,  waved 
the  green  flag,  and,  suddenly  transformed  into  the 
engine-driver,  sprang  into  the  front  portion  of  the 
train  and  tooted  lustily. 

"I'm  the  charger  in  the  loose  box!"  cried  Yo, 


BROKEN   CHINA  211 

shaking  herself  about  in  a  confined  space  of  chairs, 
and  thudding  ecstatically  with  her  heels. 

Felicity,  as  lady  passenger,  drew  out  her 
embroidery.  And  I,  bitterly,  asked  Larrikin  if  he 
would  allow  me  to  be  the  bit  of  orange-peel  on  the 
line,  or  if  that  role  too  were  coveted  by  himself? 

"Toooooo-ooo!"  he  hooted  genially.  Then,  blow- 
ing out  his  cheeks,  "Puff -puff -puff " 

On  the  threshold  of  the  open  French  window 
Barbara  stood,  staring  at  Felicity,  at  Yo  and  at  me, 
last  of  all  at  Larrikin  ...  he  was  fairly  unmistak- 
able— her  look  set  into  horror.  .  .  .  An  exclama- 
tion choked  in  her  throat  .  .  .  she  rushed  stumbling 
away.  .  .  . 

It  was  all  so  soon  over,  that  I  remained  motionless 
and  bewildered,  till  Felicity  roused  me  from  trance. 

"Was  that  the  girl?"  :she  questioned  gently — t 
"Larry's  .  .  .  fiancee?" 

"Yes.     I'd  better  go  after  her." 

Larrikin's  shouts  of  protest  followed  me  down  the 
garden.  I  overtook  Barbara  running  headlong  up 
the  country  road  in  the  opposite  direction  from  the 
station. 

"Here's  your  cap,"  I  said;  it  had  fallen,  a  patch 
of  blue,  amongst  the  drifts  of  dead  brown  leaves. 

I  seized  her  hands  and  pulled  her  towards  me  .  .  . 
no  one  was  in  sight. 


212  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

"What's  all  this,  Babs?" 

"Let  me  alone — let  me  alone,  Kev — I  won't  go 
back — I  won't  go  near  her.  .  .  .  You  too,  you 
ought  to  have  told  me.  ...  I  hate  you — I  hate  you 
all  .  .  .  everybody  in  the  world.  .  .  .  Nobody 
tells  the  truth.  .  .  ."  She  wrestled  with  me — 
yielded,  and  dropped  down  in  a  little  heap  on  the 
grass  and  leaves  by  the  side  of  the  road,  trembling  in 
all  her  limbs — but  she  did  not  cry,  and  her  voice, 
between  the  gasps,  was  hard  and  defiant. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  Those,  the  little  girl  and 
boy,  are  Larry's  children — ^you  guessed  it  from  the 
likeness,  didn't  you?" 

"Prue — his  mother " 

"Knows  nothing  about  it." 

"I'm  going  to  tell  her." 

And  again  to  my  listening  ears,  the  world  was 
a-tinkle  with  broken  china. 

"Must  you,  child?     It  will  hurt  her  unbelievably." 

"I  don't  care.  She  ought  to  know.  And  I've 
been  hurt  too.  You  told  me  about — her;  never  that 
there  were  .  .  .  babies — Oh,  a  baby  boy  that  looks 
like  Larry!" 

I  saw  now  why  Barbara  could  not  and  would  not 
forgive.  .  .  .  Larrikin  belonged  by  right  to  her,  not 
to  Felicity.  Out  of  all  her  childishness  burst  that 
woman's  cry. 

"You  shan't  talk  me  over  this  time,  Kevin." 

I  did  not  try.  But  quietly  held  her  in  my  arms 
.  .  .  and  she  suffered  it. 


BROKEN   CHINA  213 

"Don't  tell  Prue,"  I  whispered. 

"I  must.  She'll  ask  me  why  I'm  breaking  off  the 
engagement." 

"Do  you  mean  to  do  that,  Babs?" 

"Yes." 

Slim  young  body,  that  a  man  might  so  easily  have 
crushed;  lips  softly  curved  as  apple-blossom  petals 
.  .  .  but  the  grey  eyes  were  inflexible. 

"How  dare  you  not  tell  me,  Kevin?  I  thought 
you  were  different,  but  you're  a  liar  and  a  cheat  like 
the  rest  of  them.  ..." 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  acquiesced,  weary  of  the  whole 
entanglement.  "What  brought  you  down  here  to- 
day?" 

I  was  not  curious — ^my  thoughts,  strangely,  were 
centred  not  on  Larry,  unconscious  of  his  happiness 
in  peril  and  past  all  peril,  nor  on  Barbara  raging  in 
the  china-shop,  nor  on  Felicity  .  .  .  but  Prue.  .  .  . 
When  she  heard  the  blurted  story  of  Larry  and 
Felicity  and  Larrikin,  what  would  Prue  say  or  do? 
what  of  the  shrine  over  which  she  and  Felicity 
had  for  years  held  hands?  .  .  .  Imagination  halted, 
appalled  at  the  tragedy  so  incongruously  descending 
upon  the  busy,  brisk  little  soul  with  her  housewifely 
ways. 

"What  brought  you  down  here  today?" 

I  gathered  that  Felicity  had  always  existed  as  a 
menace  and  a  spectre  in  one  comer  of  Barbara's 
idyll;  and  that  Larry,  guessing  it,  had  teased 
her.  .  .  .     "When  I'm  going  to  desert  you,  I  shall 


214  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

just  say  I'm  called  up  North  on  business — men  always 
do,  you  know." 

And  yesterday  Larry  had  informed  her  he  was 
called  up  North  on  business  .  .  .  and  had  sharply 
chidden  her  for  a  suspicious  little  goose,  when  she 
flung  out  in  anger.  And  had  gone.  Thereupon  she 
had  asked  Prue  for  the  address  of  Felicity's  country 
cottage,  and  had  rushed  waywardly  down  to  Thyme 
Croft,  meaning  to  "have  it  out"  with  Larry  in  front 
of  Felicity;  and  "have  it  out"  with  Felicity  too: 
"You're  old;  you  don't  want  him  any  more,  and  I 
do;  I  expect  you've  been  bothering  him.  So 
just  leave  him  alone!"  .  .  .  Somewhat  in  this  vein 
would  she  have  abused  her  rival.  ...  I  wondered 
by  what  fashion  of  courteous  reproof  would  Felicity 
have  queened  the  situation,  had  it  thus  befallen  as 
Barbara  planned  it. 

"Was  he  in  the  cottage?     I  didn't  see.  .  .  ." 

"Larry?  No — not  a  sign  of  him.  Nor  ever  has 
been — since  he  met  you  and  cared  for  you.  I  expect 
he  was  really  called  up  North  on  business." 

Barbara  sighed,  a  quiver  in  her  breath  that  warned 
me  the  tears  were  not  far  off,  though  stubbornly 
repressed.  "He'll  be  astonished,  won't  he,  when  he 
comes  back — and  finds  out  I've  broken  it  off?" 
Almost  she  was  proud,  in  her  misery,  to  discover 
herself  capable  of  taking  such  a  sensational 
initiative.  Then,  wholly  baby  again:  "Oh,  but  I 
don't  want  to  go  home  and  be  nothing  special  to 


BROKEN    CHINA  215 

anybody.  And  Mums  will  be  so  cross  at  not  getting 
rid  of  me  after  all." 

"Barbara,  we've  all  spoilt  Larry.  Spoil  him,  too. 
It's  easiest  for  you,  belonging  to  him.  Pretend  that 
nothing  is  changed;  nothing  is  changed.  .  .  ." 

I  was  fighting  for  Prue,  not  for  her  son,  this  time. 
But  the  girl  was  true  to  her  standards:  "I'm  not 
going  to  pretend  and  tell  lies — like  the  rest  of  you. 
And  live  in  a  muddle  of  things  that  might  be  found 
out  .  .  .  And  I  don't  belong  to  Larry — they  belong 
to  him" — ^with  a  furious  little  gesture  towards  Thyme 
Croft.  "And  his  mother  is  just  going  to  know  the 
sort  of  man  her  wonderful  Larry  is.  Oh,  it's  a  shame 
of  him  all  these  years  .  .  .  when  she's  such  a  dear. 
A  shame!  .  .  .  It's  no  good  talking  any  more,  Kevin 
— I  want  to  go  back.  Where's  the  station  from 
here?" 

I  gave  in.  Perhaps  Barbara's  ways  were  the  best 
.  .  .  what  right  had  I  to  impose  upon  her  young 
clarity  of  vision,  our  own  grey  web  woven  of  shade 
and  subtleties?  habits  of  tolerance  that  might  be 
merely  ideals  grown  dull  and  torpid  and  springless. 

Perhaps  Barbara's  ways  were  the  best,  even  though 
they  meant  broken  china. 

[16] 

Broken  china  .  .  .  and  afterwards  Barbara  went 
home  to  her  mother.  And  Larry  went  to  South 
America. 


216  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

Justly  viewed,  it  was  their  tragedy  and  no  one 
else's  .  .  .  but  I  could  not  feel  it  mattered  poignantly 
.  .  .  they  were  so  very  young — we  were  all  young 
together,  Larry,  and  Babs,  and  I.  .  .  .  But  Prue 
refused  ever  to  forgive  Felicity,  ever  to  see  her  again. 
And  though  they  were  only  two  women,  and  though 
lovers  count  infinitely  more  than  friends  when  parting 
and  agony  are  in  the  air,  yet  I  saw  Larry  off  at  the 
docks,  and  left  Barbara  in  the  taxi  while  I  told  Kate 
the  painful  news  of  her  daughter  returned  to  her,  with 
a  strange  absence  of  emotion,  considering  what  Larry 
and  Babs  had  meant  to  me  in  the  way  of  love  and 
hatred,  hatred  and  love.  My  thoughts  were  fixed  on 
Prue  Munro  in  her  sudden  and  violent  enlightenment. 
She  sent  for  me  that  I  might  corroborate  Barbara's 
wild  statements — and  I  went,  ridiculously  the  man 
whom  everybody  sent  for  in  every  crisis. 

Why  could  /  not  send  for  somebody?  I,  too,  had 
a  point  of  view,  and  my  little  heap  of  shattered 
china.  .  .  .  Supposing  I  sat  squarely  planted  in 
Middle  Inn  Gardens,  and  sent  for  Prue  and  Larry  and 
my  mother  and  Babs  and  K.  B.  Seton  and  Wentworth 
.  .  .  how  disconcerting  to  the  general  acceptation  of 
a  static  arrangement! 

Childishly  I  wanted  to  send  for  somebody.  .  .  . 
I  have  never  in  all  my  life  dreaded  anything  as  I 
dreaded  that  interview  with  Prue. 

She  was  quite  hard  and  snappish,  and — and  horrid 
about  it  all.  She  said  inadequate  things  .  .  .  that 
Felicity  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself,  for  instance 


BROKEN   CHINA  217 

.  .  .  because  it  is  difficult  to  find  words  all  at  once 
that  are  up  to  the  level  of  a  big  sorrow  and  dis- 
appointment; and  the  necessity  found  Prue  barren 
of  words  save  of  the  kind  I  suppose  she  habitually- 
used  when  complaining  of  the  quality  of  the  beef.  I 
recognized  that  she  was  too  real  and  genuine — and 
too  stricken — ^to  indulge  in  dramatic,  poignant,  or 
beautiful  effects.  The  commonplace,  facile  little 
sentences  in  which  she  gave  account  of  her  tragedy 
made  it  sound  worse  than  awful — made  it  sound 
trivial. 

Nothing  was  Larry's  fault.  She  still  vehemently 
defended  her  son:  "Poor  old  boy — ^who  could  blame 
him? — at  that  age  ...  he  was  just  a  baby  still!" 
And  "He'd  have  told  me  right  enough,  only  she 
wouldn't  let  him  .  .  .  Larry  was  never  deceitful." 

"Going  on  all  this  time — and  pretending  to  be  my 
friend — why,  any  little  thing  I  could  ever  do  for  her 
.  .  .  I've  put  off  my  own  concerns  again  and  again 
to  attend  to  Felicity's." 

Her  round  troll  face  was  rough  and  scrapy  with 
continuous  crying,  and  I  could  hardly  see  her  eyes  for 
the  swollen  pink  around  them.  She  deplored  bitterly 
the  rupture  of  the  engagement  between  Larry  and  the 
girl  "who  would  have  looked  after  him  and  made 
him  happy.  But  I  expect  she^s  satisfied,  now  that 
she's  brought  about  the  end  of  it." 

"Felicity  wasn't  responsible  for  the  breaking  off 
of  Larry's  engagement;  if  Barbara  had  not  seen  the 
children " 


218  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

Prue's  mouth  set  into  chill  iron.  .  .  .  She  would 
not  speak  of  Larrikin  and  Yo,  would  not  hear  them 
mentioned.  And  she  never  wished  to  see  Felicity 
again.  "Tell  her  I  said  so,  Kevin,  and  that  I  mean 
it." 

But  was  she  impelled  to  such  drastic  unforgiveness 
from  anger  at  the  friendship  suddenly  shown  to  her, 
rotted  through  and  through  with  deception?  Or  by 
her  outraged  mother- love  for  Larry?  Or  by  respecta- 
bility shocked?  ...  Or  else  was  it — I  could  not 
help  wondering  .  .  .  did  it  also  contain  a  quiver  of 
protective  jealousy  for  Larry  Munro  dead?  "I  be- 
lieved that  she  loved  you,  my  husband  whom  I  loved 
.  .  .  and  so  I  honoured  her  by  a  place  of  equal  vigil 
and  mourning.  She  has  betrayed  my  belief.  .  .  . 
Now  I  am  left  alone  beside  the  shrine.  .  .  ." 

Was  this  what  was  in  Prue's  soul?  Had  it  been 
an  audible  plaint,  I  might  have  combated  it.  .  .  . 
On  Felicity's  part  it  was  surely  no  mere  faithlessness 
towards  Larry  Munro  to  have  lavished  herself  on 
Larry  Munro's  repeated  features,  and  voice,  and  fasci- 
nation .  .  .  why,  Larry  the  second  may  even  have 
besought  her  with  the  same  words  as  his  father, 
eighteen  years  ago.  Was  there  truly  romance  in  this, 
or  was  I  a  young  fool  to  feel  it  so  vitally,  and  to 
condemn  Prue  for  her  bitter,  withered  little  judg- 
ments? 

Ah,  no,  I  did  not  condemn  her,  God  knows!  But 
my  pity  was  all  over  the  place  at  this  time.  .  .  . 
Prue  had  lost  a  friend  and  a  son  and  an  illusion  and 


BROKEN   CHINA  219 

the  grandchild  for  whom  she  was  knitting  small 
woolly  socks.  But  I  was  alike  haunted  by  Felicity's 
poignant:  "I  must  see  her,  Kevin.  Tell  her — I 
must  see  her.  Why  won't  she  at  least  see  me?  .  .  ." 
And  by  Larry's  eyes,  hard  and  miserable  and  self- 
mocking,  just  before  he  went  aboard  at  Southampton: 
"Lucky  the  firm  offered  me  this  job  just  about  now, 
wasn't  it?  I'd  have  refused  it,  of  course,  if — 
Well,  good-bye,  Kevin,  old  man — come  out  and  join 
me  if  you  get  fed  up  with  the  Bar;  and  we'll  form  a 
syndicate  for  the  promotion  of  minor  revolu- 
tions." .  .  . 

"Potter,"  I  said,  "have  you  anything  in  the  nature 
of  a  confidence  to  make  to  me?" 

Potter,  thank  God,  responded  in  the  negative.  I 
inserted  my  toe  in  the  fat  creases  of  his  flesh  and 
gratefully  rolled  him  about. 

"All  lonely  bachelors  talk  to  their  dogs.  Potter. 
Or  to  their  pipes,  or  to  a  photograph;  futile,  I  grant 
you,  but  quite  the  accepted  thing.  So  you  must  bear 
with  me."  .  .  . 

"Barbara  had  the  best  of  it,  you  know — of  the  five 
of  us.  She  at  least  had  the  fun  of  ramping  about  the 
china-shop.  Potter,  I've  had  damned  little  fun — in 
fact,  none  at  all."  .  .  . 

When  I  had  left  Prue,  that  afternoon,  she  first 
pressed  me  to  stay  to  tea,  vaunting  Martha's  cakes. — 
And  then:  "Has  Felicity  engaged  that  new  cook  yet? 
— I  must  remind  her  not  to  offer  a  penny  more  than 


220  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

irty-five.  ..." 
Bvin.  .  .  ," 
I  told  Felicity. 


thirty-five.  .  .  ."     Then,  after  a  pause:     "Tell  her, 
Kevin.  ..." 


PART   III   —THE   DYNASTY 


[1] 


AND  I  did  not  see  Larry  again  until  May,  1915, 
two  years  after  the  chaotic  results  of  innocence 
let  loose  in  the  china-shop. 

He  came  to  visit  me  then  in  the  convalescent 
hospital  at  Brighton — and  already  I  had  been  to 
France,  and  had  come  back,  and  would  not  go  out 
again.  Larry,  who  as  soon  as  he  received  belated 
news  of  the  war,  had  pelted  home  to  England  from 
an  obscure  little  State  in  South  America,  landed  soon 
after  I  had  been  ordered  out,  about  January  of  the 
new  year.  Now,  with  a  commission  in  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps,  he  was  expecting  to  take  a  flight  across 
the  Channel  at  any  moment.  As  I  swung  clumsily  on 
my  recently  fitted  crutches  across  an  empty  ward,  to 
meet  the  lithe,  alert  stripling  with  the  wings  on  his 
left  breast,  the  sight  of  his  face  made  me  feel  old  and 
battle-scarred  and  disillusioned. 

"Hullo,  Hermes!" 

"Hullo,  Vulcan!" 

"That's  tactless.  You  should  have  carefully  not 
noticed  that  I  was  lame — ^kept  up  a  cheery  pretence 
that  I  was  in  hospital  for  fun  or  a  rest-cure." 

"Is  it  permanent?" 

I  nodded. 


224  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

"How  disgustingly  picturesque  of  you,  Kev!"  in 
petulant  complaint. 

"You  may  be  able  to  pull  off  something  more  hide- 
ously realistic  for  yourself — ^but  I  should  hardly  have 
called  a  fractured  femur  and  snicked  heel  so  con- 
foundedly picturesque." 

"Achilles,  not  Vulcan!  my  mistake.  You  should 
have  worn  thick  knitted  socks." 

"Who's  to  knit  'em  for  me?" 

"Doesn't  Felicity  fulfil  her  duties  as  a  mother?" 

"Excellently — to  Larrikin." 

With  which  the  first  bout  of  conversation  between 
two  comrades  re-united,  may  be  said  to  have  ended. 

I  sat  down  heavily  and  Larry  surveyed  me  in  si- 
lence. I  may  have  looked  a  bit  haggard  and  scare- 
crowish,  for  he  broke  out: 

"If  only  you'd  been  in  the  Flying  Corps — I  might 
have  looked  after  you."  And  struck  a  match 
viciously  on  his  boot,  to  light  a  cigarette. 

I  laughed.  "  'You  shall  not  hurt  my  little  bruvver' 
— fourth  act,  twenty-seventh  scene  of  Babes  in  the 
Wood  pantomime."  .  .  . 

"Well — I'm  older  than  you,"  in  pugnacious  tones 
from  the  man  standing  at  the  fireplace,  with  his  back 
towards  me. 

It  struck  me  for  the  first  time  in  our  joint  career 
that  Larry  was  indeed  my  senior;  for  the  first  time  I 
distinctly  felt  him  my  senior — experienced  a  weak 
and  altogether  idiotic  yearning  to  put  my  head  down 
on  his  shoulder  and  howl  stormily,  because  I  was  cut 


THE   DYNASTY  225 

off  from  all  the  fun  out  there,  and  because  I  would 
never  climb  rocks  again,  and  because  nobody  cared 
.  .  .  and  so  forth;  howl,  and  be  comforted. 

I  pulled  myself  together,  and  began  to  yam  a  bit 
about  my  impressions  during  a  month  (rather  less)  in 
the  fighting  line.  These  consisted  mostly  of  monoto- 
nous tracks  squirming  monotonously  across  monoto- 
nous mud — and  were  not,  therefore,  of  a  highly  thril- 
ling nature.  About  my  most  sensational  exploit  had 
been  to  drop  into  peaceful  slumber  one  night  with 
my  bare  head  confidently  nestled  on  the  parapet;  lit 
by  floods  of  silver  moonlight,  and  in  full  range  of 
every  Hun  sniper. 

Larry  made  the  ward  ring  with  his  shouts  of 
appreciation:  "Great  Scot!  You  priceless  cherub! 
And  after  that  concussion  in  Cornwall  too,  one  might 
imagine  a  fellow'd  take  more  care  of  his  curly  little 
cocoa-nut.  .  .  .  Heard  anything,  by  the  way,  of  our 
pals  the  Setons?" 

"Barbara  came  to  see  me  the  other  day — last 
Thursday,  I  think  it  was." 

We  had  mentioned  Felicity  and  Larrikin  ...  it 
was  inevitable  that  our  conversation  should  take  its 
present  turn.  Not  that  Larry  seemed  at  all  dis- 
concerted. 

"Babs?     Did  she?     V.A.D.  I  suppose?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  and  when  are  you  and  she  going  to  get 
spliced?" 

I  shifted  uneasily — Curse  the  man,  why  must  he 


226  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

needs  be — indecorous?  But  the  gay,  teasing  voice 
continued : 

"Waiting  in  silent  heroism  for  my  sandtion,  I 
suppose?  Oh,  I  know  your  painful  sense  of  honour, 
Kev " 

"Is  that  sarcasm?"  I  asked.  "Were  you  by  any 
chance  remembering  that  I  gave  your  show  away 
at  Porthgollan,  a  couple  of  years  ago?" 

Larry  swore  at  me. 

"Besides,"  I  went  on,  drearily  facetious,  "I  was 
under  a  sort  of  delusion  that  Babs  was  in  love  with 
you.     Correct  me  if  I'm  wrong." 

"My  dear  old  chap,  Babs  doesn't  know  one  man 
from  another  yet." 

Was  he  right?  I  wondered.  Such  a  child  still 
— ^nineteen  last  birthday.  It  had  been  raining  all 
the  morning,  but  now  a  ray  of  pale  amber  sunshine 
danced  across  the  floor  of  the  ward,  and  one  bird 
began  to  trill  from  the  tree  in  the  courtyard  outside, 
...  I  was  in  the  silly  mood  to  find  pleasure  in 
cheap  symbolism. 

But  she  had  heard  Larry  whistle  the  Spring  Song 
.  .  .  and  would  she  ever  forget  it?  How  he  had 
wooed  her,  that  night;  queer  night;  we  had  all  been 
unbalanced  .  .  .  and  Barbara  had  wept. 

"Well — what's  the  result  of  the  reverie?"  Larry's 
grin  was  freakish. 

"If  I— what  about  you?" 

He  understood  me:     "Oh,  I've  still  got  my  faithful 


THE   DYNASTY  227 

old  bus — what  more  can  an  airman  want?  'We  bin 
together  nah  for  forty  years'!  pity  for  the  sentiment 
of  the  thing  that  they  turn  us  on  to  a  fresh  one  every 
few  days.  I've  got  to  be  off,  Kev — so  long!  Stuff 
yourself  up  with  plenty  of  butter  and  cream — you 
look  as  if  you  needed  it.  And  I'll  try  and  get  leave 
to  be  your  best  man." 

"Good-bye,  old  son.     Good  luck." 

No,  he  did  not  care  about  Babs  anymore.  He 
cared  about  nothing  save  the  adventure  ahead;  I 
had  never  seen  him  more  radiant  and  mercurial 
than  now,  on  the  eve  of  active  service. 

"Larry,"  I  called  him  back  when  he  was  starting 
to  the  door,  and  blurted  out:  "Has  your  mother 
— will  your  mother  see  Felicity  .  .  .  now? 

"Why  now?  Because  I'm  on  my  last  leave? 
Don't  be  a  sentimental  ass.  Mater's  sensible  as  any- 
thing about  things,  thank  goodness.  I  took  her  out 
on  the  bust  last  night — revue  and  supper,  fright- 
fully immoral — and  booked  her  up  for  an  encore  on 
my  next  first  night  in  Blighty;  she's  as  good  a  sport 
to  trot  round  as  any  girl,  and  not  so  bunged  up  with 
tears  and  misery  and  promise-me-you-will-come- 
back."  Suddenly  he  burst  into  whole-hearted 
laughter:  "Remember  the  flapper  you  saw  with  me 
in  the  Cafe  Royal?  What  was  her  name?  Phyllis 
...  no,  Peggy."       s 

"Lord,  yes.  I  remember  her  every  time  I  see 
'Beattie  and  Babs'  on  the  bill."  But  I  was  heartily 
glad  that  Prue  had  been  selected  for  special  dis- 


228  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

tinotion.  Somehow,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  ask 
whether  he  had  been  equally  kind  to  Felicity  .  .  . 
it  seemed  too  pitiful  that  she  should  be  at  the  mercy 
of  his  lordliness. 


[2] 

Prue  visited  me  shortly  afterwards,  with  nourishing 
food  in  such  large  quantities  as  to  reveal  that  Larry 
must  have  led  her  to  believe  the  worst  about  my 
looks.  With  her  natural  aptitude  for  busy-ness, 
bounty  and  economy,  the  war  was  a  godsend.  She 
was  "women  of  England"  concentrated  into  one  firm, 
tight,  competent  little  bundle;  her  practical  gifts  were 
in  full  play  on  about  a  dozen  committees  of  organ- 
ization; her  warm-heartedness  took  her  the  round 
of  a  dozen  hospitals;  her  fingers  were  perpetually 
sewing  or  knitting;  her  household  was  conducted  on 
a  sparse  method  which  would  have  given  new  life 
and  hope  to  a  harassed  Government  perpetually  urg- 
ing "patriotism  in  the  home" ;  she  never  let  herself  be 
needlessly  carried  away  to  enthusiasm  or  panic  by 
the  daily  bulletins  from  the  Front;  did  not  neglect 
Wentworth  in  her  accumulation  of  fresh  interests; 
and  talked  about  Larry  mainly  from  the  point  of  view 
of  demand  and  supply,  and  how  to  meet  his  require- 
ments cheerily  renewed  in  every  letter,  and  how  best 
to  pack  them  and  send  them,  and  how  soon  would 
they  arrive.  .  .  .  Larry  was  "all  right"  now  .  .  . 
her  voice  had  a  relieved  note  when  she  mentioned 


THE   DYNASTY  229 

him;  in  hourly  peril  he  might  be,  but  it  was  normal 
healthy  peril,  shared  by  an  entire  nation  of  his 
contemporaries;  and  tradition  sanctioned  and 
approved.  The  passionate  episode  of  Larry  and 
Felicity  had  an  apart  quality,  wild  and  vaporous,  that 
appalled  Prue,  as  not  at  all  included  in  her  scheme 
of  things.  But  Larry  was  "all  right"  now  ...  he 
was  doing  his  duty. 

Or  so  I  read  her  demeanour.  Again  I  dared  not 
mention  the  children  or  Felicity.  Felicity  was 
pushed  by  every  one  into  a  shadowy  corner  of  dis- 
grace. 

But  I  knew,  triumphantly,  that  through  all  the  bustle 
and  patter  of  war-work,  Prue  missed  her. 

And  directly  I  was  dismissed  from  hospital,  and 
in  my  old  rooms  in  Middle  Inn  Gardens,  permanently 
discharged  from  the  Army  as  unfit  for  further 
service,  I  sought  her  in  vain  at  the  West  End  hotel, 
where  she  was  fitfully  to  be  found  between  bouts  of 
country-house  visiting,  and  expensive  vagrancy,  and 
her  periods  of  holiday  at  Thyme  Croft,  when  Yo 
and  Larrikin  were  home  from  school.  The  house 
in  St.  John's  Wood  had  been  relinquished  after  her 
quarrel  with  Prue, — no,  quarrel  was  the  wrong  term 
for  it,  quarrel  conveyed  something  snappish  and 
verbal  .  .  .  but  it  was  obviously  impossible  under 
the  circumstances  that  Felicity  could  continue  to  live 
side  by  side  with  Larry's  mother,  seeing  her  and 
passing  her  a  dozen  times  a  day.  The  "To  be  Sold" 
board  which  still  creaked  from  the  front  garden  wall 


230  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

of  my  old  home,  was  a  minor  result  of  the  energy  of 
a  certain  young  bull. 


[3] 

"Here,  shove  'em  over  to  me;  I'll  drop  'em 
in  the  rack!"  Micky  was  as  usual  sublime  in  his 
tactful  method  of  treating  my  crutches  as  though 
they  were  a  walking-stick ;  fortunately  for  the  success 
of  his  tactics,  I  was  able  to  limp  along  in  fair 
comfort  without  support. 

K.  B.  Seton  was  sitting  in  a  turmoil  of  blankets 
and  sheets  and  pillows  on  the  sitting-room  sofa,  writ- 
ing. I  gathered  from  her  explanations  that  she  took 
a  flat  in  town  on  the  same  odd  but  hopeful  principles 
of  space  as  were  in  force  at  The  Shoe:  always  have 
exactly  one  bed  too  little,  in  case  one  of  your  family 
should  happen  to  be  away.  The  game  of  musical 
chairs  was  governed  by  this  system,  and  had  provided 
amusement  for  thousands;  so  that  I  really  do  not  see 
why  it  should  not  take  a  perpetual  place  in  the  home 
— "Only,"  as  Kate  remarked  petulantly,  "they  so 
very  rarely  are  away — any  of  them.  Such  an  exas- 
perating set  of  people!  Mick  goes  into  camp  some- 
times, and  of  course  it  looked  once  as  though  Barbara 
were  going  to  be  married,  but  even  then  I  suppose 
she'd  have  wanted  to  sleep  at  home  while  he  was  at 
the  Front.  And  as  for  Henry,  nothing  will  induce 
him  to  spend  a  night  away  from  home — and  there 
you  are!" 


THE   DYNASTY  231 

I  sympathized.     Then:     "Where  is  Babs?" 

"Babs  is  a  bit  done  up  with  hospital  work  and 
has  joined  a  week-end  party  on  the  river.  She  went 
off  with  her  suit-case  after  lunch.  Four  of  them  in 
a  bungalow:  two  girls,  two  men.  It  sounds  pleasant, 
doesn't  it?" 

"It  sounds  mathematically  perfect!"  I  was 
annoyed  at  having  missed  Babs,  but  sought  con- 
solation with  Micky,  who  demanded  my  war  exper- 
iences, and  sat  at  my  feet  asking  sage  questions, 
listening  with  faintly  parted  lips  and  solemn,  attentive 
eyes:    "The  Boyhood  of  Raleigh"  up-to-date. 

We  were  disturbed  by  another  visitor — a  handsome 
breezy  girl  in  V.A.D.  uniform. 

"How  are  you,  Mrs.  Seton?  Is  Babs  in?  I  want 
to  see  her  rather  specially." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Edith.  Babs  is  with  you  at 
Bray,  isn't  she?     At  Vemie  Frome's  bungalow." 

The  girl  looked  puzzled.  "That  party  was  put  off 
till  next  week-end — didn't  Babs  tell  you?  We  had  a 
lot  of  fresh  cases  in  last  night,  and  I  couldn't  get 
away.  I  said  I'd  let  the  Oliver  boy  know  on  my 
way  home,  if  she  sent  a  wire  to  Vernie." 

Kate  said  slowly:  "She  said  nothing  to  me  about 
a  change  of  plans,  when  she  went  off  with  her  suit- 


case." 


And  there  was  a  lull  in  the  room,  while  we  all 
racked  our  brains  for  something  absolutely  harmless 
which  Barbara  might  be  doing  with  her  suit-case. 
Kate's  peculiar  insistence  on  that  suit-case  lent  it  a 


232  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

sinister  aspect.  But  I  had  not  yet  fully  grasped  the 
situation,  nor  why  the  appearance  of  the  V.A.D. 
should  have  had  so  catastrophic  an  effect.  Henry 
ceased  his  game  of  chess  with  Ned,  and  complained  in 
weeping  accents: 

"You  should  go  about  with  her  more  yourself, 
Kate.  I  always  said  so.  You  and  your  novels!  If 
you  kept  her  bright  and  amused,  she  wouldn't  have 
fallen  into  low  company,"  which  contribution,  besides 
being  hardly  polite  to  Edith,  roused  Kate  to  a  semi- 
humorous  frenzy. 

"Where  is  Barbara?"  I  asked,  when  I  thought 
she  had  sufficiently  mutilated  Henry's  self-respect. 
I  realized  now  quite  clearly  that  she  was  to  have  gone 
with  this  Edith  friend  of  hers  and  an  Oliver  boy 
to  a  bungalow  belonging  to  one  Vemie  Frome.  Also 
that  yesterday  Edith  had  perforce  withdrawn  herself 
and  Oliver  from  the  appointment  and  had  left  it  to 
Babs  to  cancel  the  tryst  with  Frome.  Instead  of 
which  she  had  said  nothing  at  home,  but  had  departed 
directly  after  lunch  as  though  the  week-end  party 
were  still  a  fact.  .  .  .  What  sort  of  a  man  was  this 
Frome? 

"I  don't  like  Captain  Frome,"  said  Micky,  answer- 
ing my  unspoken  question  telepathically. 

Micky  was  a  good  judge.  His  inflexion 
instantly  described  to  me  the  type  of  man  in 
question. 

"It's  queer  she  didn't  tell  you "  Edith  began, 

and  left  it  at  that. 


THE   DYNASTY  233 

"You're  all  of  you  being  quite  ridiculous  and 
melodramatic."  Kate  Seton  scattered  our  unspoken 
suspicions,  briskly  thumping  the  bolster,  "Babs  is 
enough  of  an  up-to-date  girl  to  walk  out  of  the  house 
for  a  day  or  two  without  fifty  explanations  and  apolo- 
gies. I'm  very  glad  she  has  so  much  spirit  and 
independence ' ' 

"So  am  I,"  echoed  Henry,  currying  favour.  "It 
would  be  a  queer  thing  nowadays  if  a  high-spirited 
girl  couldn't  spend  a  week-end  at  a  pleasant  young 
friend's  bunglow  without  all  the  world  and  her  own 
family  condemning  her  for  it  because  he  happens  to 
be  a  male.  Especially  if  she's  in  uniform,"  he 
added  fatuously. 

"My  dear  good  man,  of  course  Barbara  wouldn't 
dream  of  spending  a  week-end  at  Captain  Frome's 
bungalow  under  the  circumstances.  What  in  the 
sacred  name  of  George  Shaw  are  you  babbling 
about?" 

Henry  perceived  that  he  had  gone  wrong  somehow. 
"Then  where  is  she?     She  isn't  here?" 

"Oh,  I  expect  she's  run  away  with  Frome  and 
married  him,"  Ned  threw  in.  "Your  move,  Pater. 
Or  do  you  want  me  to  go  after  him  with  a  horse- 
whip?" 

"I'll  come  too,  if  you  do."  Micky  evidently  began 
to  realize  some  distant  prospects  of  entertainment  in 
the  affair. 

"He's  a  great  pal  of  my  brother's,"  Edith  said 
hesitantly. 


234  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

"That's  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  roared  Henry, 
whom  circumstance  was  rapidly  peeling  of  his  skin 
of  advanced  culture,  to  expose  the  well-known  pater- 
familias beneath.     "Where's  my  daughter?" 

"I'm  going  home." 

They  all  turned  and  stared  at  me.  My  firm  thrust 
into  the  argument  sounded  so  entirely  irrelevant. 
But  I  had  received  sudden  and  absurd  assurance  of 
Barbara's  whereabouts.  She  was  in  my  "den"  at 
Middle  Inn  Gardens.  That  being  so,  it  was 
ridiculous  for  me  to  remain  here  listening  to  futile 
conjecture  on  the  subject.  Nor  could  I  give  the 
others  access  to  a  certainty  for  which  I  had  no  sound 
or  valid  reasons  to  offer. 

London,  faintly  bloomed  by  the  June  evening,  was 
a  hum  and  a  glitter  of  beauty  to  me,  from  the  windows 
of  my  taxi.  My  blood  was  throbbing,  and  I  per- 
petually urged  the  chauffeur  to  go  faster.  Barbara 
is  coming  to  mie  .  .  .  Barbara  has  come  to  me. 
.  .  .  The  rush  past  of  traffic  down  Kingsway  was 
a  triumphal  pageant — Barbara  is  at  home — Barbara 
is  waiting 

It  was  a  shock,  after  all  this  tingle  of  expectation, 
to  find  the  den  empty  of  occupants  save  Potter,  who 
had  turned  exasperatingly  pathetic  about  me  since 
my  absence  at  the  Front,  obedient  as  the  child  in  a 
Sunday-school  tract  story,  and  sensitive  to  the  verge 
of  tears  when  I  tried  to  goad  him  into  a  display  of 
manhood. 


THE   DYNASTY  235 

[4] 

Presently  Barbara  came.  Her  peal  at  the  bell 
was  defiant;  and  her  entrance,  when  shown  in  by- 
Thompson,  was  decidedly  overdone :  "Hullo,  Kev — I 
just  thought  I'd  drop  in  on  you.  .  .  ." 

"You  'dorable  'diculous  darling!"  mentally. 
Aloud  I  remarked,  imitating  her  casual  tone,  that  it 
was  most  awfully  decent  of  her;  that  a  fellow  did  get 
rather  pipped,  mewed  up  by  himself;  and  (sternly) 
was  she  aware  of  the  time? 

Barbara  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  desk  and  laughed  at 
me,  and  impertinently  swung  her  pretty  silk 
ankles.  She  had  abandoned  uniform  for  river 
costume — a  short  white  serge  skirt,  and  white  silk 
shirt  wide-flung  at  the  throat,  and  an  emerald  jersey 
and  cap.  The  eff'ect  of  the  attitude,  costume,  and 
voice  were  all  assistant  props  to  the  daringly  informal 
tone  of  this  visit,  but  her  hand,  grabbing  ner- 
vously at  the  edge  of  the  desk,  gave  her  away;  little 
trembling  hand.  .  .  . 

"Kev,  isn't  this  fun?" 

"Great  fun.  Do  you  always  pay  calls  with  your 
suit-case?" 

"Oh,  that  was  to  shock  you.  You  used  to  lecture 
me  for  being  narrow-minded.  Well,  I'm  broad- 
minded  now — I  do  all  sorts  of  things.  .  .  .  Besides, 
my  people  think  I'm  spending  the  week-end  with  a 
perfectly  respectable  party  at  Bray.  My  best  friend, 
Edie  Conway,  invited  me.  But  I  thought  this  would 
be  more  exciting." 


236  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

"On  the  contrary,  Babs,  your  people  know  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  a  perfectly  respectable  party  at  Bray. 
And  because  you  probably  found  it  rather  too 
exciting,  is  why  you  are  here  now!" 

She  stared  at  me,  her  pupils  dilating.  "You've 
seen  them — you  know — but  how  do  they  know?  .  .  • 
Oh,  it's  not  fair — you  should  have  told  me  before 
I — ^before  I — Oh,  Kev,  I'm  in  a  scrape.  Must  I  go 
home?" 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  I  whispered.  I  dared  not 
touch  her  at  that  moment  of  her  soft  surrender  .  .  . 
but  she  crumpled  into  my  arms  and  buried  her  face  in 
my  sleeve,  and  what  could  I  do? 

"Babs  .  .  .  Babs  ...  I  love  you,  Babs." 

A  sigh  was  her  only  answer.  Then:  "Even 
though — I've — ^been — ^wicked?  You  can't  possibly 
— Kevin,  I  used  to  say  such  horrid  things  about 
people  who  told  lies,  and  were  wicked;  and 
now.  ..." 

Well,  I  was  not  seriously  alarmed  at  this  mysterious 
"wickedness'^  at  which  she  hinted.  Contact  with 
anything  crude  or  real  would  have  left  more  tragic, 
more  pitiable  traces  on  such  a  headlong  young 
idealist,  than  just  this  childish  fit  of  crying,  and 
childish  impulse  to  confession.  Babs  still  sobbed 
her  heart  out  with  as  much  ease  as  a  year  ago  on  the 
sands  at  PorthgoUan. 

.  .  .  "And  mother  always  laughed  at  me  and 
never  bothered,  and  said  I  wasn't  the  sort  of  girl  who 
had  adventures  because  I'm  a  prig.     And  you  called 


THE   DYNASTY  237 

me  all  sorts  of  names — and  I  suppose  I  was,  to  send 
Larry  away  because  he'd  had  adventures  once,  but  I 
still  think  it's  horrid,  and  wanted  to  stop  thinking  like 
that  because  I  did  want  some  fun  myself — and  they 
called  me  the  'Little  Nun'  in  the  hospital — ^but  it 
isrCt  cricket  when  the  men  are  ill,  is  it?  I  mean  to 
flirt  with  them.  The  boys  say  it  isn't,  and  it  still 
seems  sometimes  that  Micky  is  more  right  than  most 
people,  though  he's  only  a  kid  and  can't  know  what 
girls  feel  like.  .  .  ." 

She  paused  for  breath.  And  I  told  her,  to  help 
her  out,  that  I  had  accidentally  been  at  St.  John's 
Wood  that  very  evening,  when  Edith  Conway  had 
arrived  to  see  her,  and  that  thus  had  transpired  the 
fact  of  the  week-end  postponed. 

"Edith  is  an  ass.  .  .  ."  Barbara  became  thought- 
ful. "What  must  Micky  have  thought — and  Mums? 
What  I  wanted  them  to  think,  I  suppose;  only  I — I 
meant  to  explode  it  on  them  myself.  You  see,  when 
Edie  told  me  to  let  Vemie  Frome  know,  I  didn't.  I 
just  didn't.  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  meet  him  at  the 
station  as  we'd  arranged,  and  go  down  to  Bray  with 
him.  Nobody  could  have  called  me  a  prig  after  that, 
could  they?  Not  even  you,  Kevin."  Suddenly  her 
face  became  a  confusion  of  wavering  crimson;  she 
slipped  from  my  arms  on  to  her  knees  beside  the 
chair,  and  gabbled  on. 

"Directly  I  told  him  the  others  weren't  coming — 
on  the  platform — he  looked  sort  of  pleased  that  I 
should  have  turned  up  after  all — as  though  ...  oh 


238  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

...  as  though  it  were  because  of  him — I  couldn't 
bear  that  he  should  think  so — any  man";  the  stung 
pride  vibrated  in  her  tone.  "Oh,  Kevin,  I  ran 
away!"  she  finished  simply. 

"To  me  .  .  ." 

"Yes.  But  you've  made  love  to  me,  too,  Kevin,  in 
a  way." 

"I've  made  love  to  you  because  I  love  you." 

"Do  you?  Truly?"  with  gaze  as  frank  and 
direct  as  while  together  we  had  chased  Lulu  among 
the  corn.     "Like  Vernie  Frome?" 

"No.  Not  a  bit  like  Vernie  Frome.  Babs,  will 
you  marry  me?" 

I  waited  for  her  to  mention  Larry — and  indeed, 
despite  his  careless  permission  and  blessing,  I  felt  a 
shade  the  traitor  in  this  wooing  of  Barbara.  But  she 
did  not  mention  Larry. 

"I  suppose  even  if  I  married  you,  I  couldn't  stop 
here  straight  away?  But  I  don't  want  to  go  home  and 
face  them,  one  bit.  It's  such  a  muddle — ^they  know 
now,  thanks  to  that  idiot  Edie,  that  I  knew  what  I 
was  doing  this  morning  and  lied — or  at  least  didn't 
say  anything;  and  they'll  wonder  why,  and  I'll  have 
to  explain  my  motives;  and  then,  even  if  they  ap- 
proved or — or  admired  me  at  all,  they'd  wonder  why 
I'd  come  back  already;  and  then  I.  shall  have  to 
explain  that  I  was  such  a  duffer  that  I  couldn't  pull  it 
through.     Kevin,  I  have  made  a  mess  of  it!" 

There  certainly  did  seem  to  be  an  alarming  amount 
of  her  private  psychology  which  Barbara  would  have 


THE   DYNASTY  239 

to  lay  bare  for  family  analysis,  before  the  Setons 
would  suffer  her  to  depart  to  bed — I  winced  sen- 
sitively in  anticipation  of  some  of  Kate's  choicer 
remarks. 

"Shall  I  say  that  I  had  invited  you  to  do  a  show 
and  supper  with  me  this  evening?  And  specially 
asked  you  not  to  say  anything  to  them  because  I 
intended  to  propose  to  you,  and  was  feeling  shy  about 
it?  So  you  reluctantly  consented,  wondering  why. 
And  therefore  took  your  suit-case,  allowing  them  to 
suppose  you  were  going  for  the  week-end.  And  I 
had  made  a  mistake  in  the  appointment.  And  be- 
came alarmed.  And  turned  up  to  fetch  you.  And 
then  suddenly  adjusted  my  mistake  and  dashed  off 
to  the  right  meeting-place — I  did  leave  rather  sud- 
denly. And  we'll  walk  in  now,  quite  happily,  and 
kneel  before  Micky  and  ask  his  blessing.  Shall  we, 
Barbara?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  she,  in  a  stunned 
whisper,  "that  you  just  made  up  all  that  story  while 
we  were  sitting  here?" 

It  was  plain  that  my  imaginative  proficiency 
appalled  her;  and  not  without  justice,  I  accused  her 
of  being  an  unreasonable  young  woman.  Here  I  was 
ready  to  perjure  myself  to  any  lengths  by  good  stout 
lying,  solely  in  order  to  extricate  her  from  a  predica- 
ment which  in  itself  was  compounded  all  of  false- 
hood. 

"Yes,"  argued  Barbara,  "but  then  nobody  believed 
me,  and  it's  all  been  found  out." 


240  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

"So  you  are  prepared  to  assert  that  a  lie  which 
comes  off  is  more  vile  in  substance  than  a  lie  which  is 
bungled?" 

She  nodded,  her  mouth  mutinously  curved. 

"Henceforth,  Barbara,"  I  exclaimed  in  polite 
wrath,  "you  shall  be  allowed  to  stew  in  your  own  juice 
— of  an  inferior  make  and  quality.     I  have  spoken." 

Barbara's  lips  quivered  slightly — was  it  pathos  or 
in  misplaced  humour? 

"Kevin!" 

Deeply  occupied  with  my  tobacco-pouch,  I  took  no 
notice. 

"Kevin,  I  know  I'm  right.  But  we'll  pretend  I'm 
wrong,  if  you  like.  Because  I  have  been  wrong  once 
or  twice,  and  may  be  this  time,  perhaps,  though  I'm 
sure  I'm  not." 

"Your  apology  is  insufficient.  Continue  therefore 
to  stew." 

"Oh  dear!"  A  lengthy  pause  followed  the 
sigh.  Then,  as  though  in  self-communion:  "And 
Mums  said  he  could  be  so  easily  managed.  .  .  ." 

"Your  mother's  psychology,  as  usual,  was  in  error 
— nor  is  it  any  good  trying  to  'manage'  me  by  playing 
winsomely  with  Potter,  my  child.  You  merely  give  a 
Coloured  Xmas  Supplement  effect  to  a  room  other- 
wise in  good  taste;  and  Potter  and  I  remain  un- 
moved. He's  not  that  sort  of  dog!  Neither  am  I," 
as  Barbara,  with  a  delicious  gurgle  of  mirth,  trans- 
ferred her  caress  from  the  bulldog  to  me. 

"I  do  rather  love  you,  Kevin." 


THE   DYNASTY  241 

"Think  I  want  to  be  'rather'  loved?" 

She  interpreted  that  as  a  snub,  to  the  effect  that 
her  lips  rubbed  against  my  cheek  was  a  sensation 
distasteful  to  me.  All  the  sparkle  and  the  mischief 
and  the  coax  passed  out  of  her.  Downcast,  yet  with  a 
forlorn  air  of  dignity,  she  let  fall  her  arms,  withdrew 
her  friendliness,  crossed  the  room,  and  picked  up  her 
suit-case. 

"Good-bye.  You've  been  very  kind  to  me.  It 
was  very  good  of  you  to  have  proposed  what  you  did. 
But  I've  decided  to  tell  them  the  truth  at  home. 
Good-bye." 

I  limped  after  her  and  caught  her  at  the  door: 
"You  little  goose  in  a  china-shop!" 

The  suit-case  dropped — fell  open — a  revolver 
clattered  out. 

I  picked  it  up  in  utter  astonishment,  and  recog- 
nized it  as  the  one  with  which  Ned  used  to  threat- 
en our  community  at  Porthgollan.  "What's  this 
for?" 

"Vemie  Frome,"  she  answered  simply.  "I  thought 
I'd  better  take  it  with  me." 

I  bit  back  a  storm  of  laughter  at  the  Motion: 
maidenhood,  determined  to  redeem  itself  from  an 
accusation  of  priggishness,  lightly  tripping  forth  to 
light  adventure — and  all  the  while  heavily  armed  to 
the  teeth  against  a  complacent  and  unconscious 
Captain  Frome. 

"And  do  you  carry  a  bayonet  concealed,  when 
you're  invited  out  to  afternoon  tea,  Babs?" 


242  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

"It  wasn't  for  tea,  this  time,"  she  rebuked  me 
gravely. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear" — I  was  suddenly  fiercely  glad  of 
the  revolver  .  .  .  and  of  the  intention  which  had 
been  in  her  soul.  Her  sincerity  swept  away  melo- 
drama. There  was  a  straight  flung,  a  royal  element 
in  it.  Royal? — I  asked  her  if  she  remembered 
when  we  sat  on  the  Minneys,  and  were  King  and 
Queen  of  Cornwall. 

"Yes.  Wasn't  I  an  infant  still,  then?  Kev,  were 
you  serious  when  you  asked  me  to  marry  you?" 

"  'M!     Fairly  serious.  .  .  ." 

"Because  Mums  would  be  most  awfully  pleased. 
And  Micky,  too." 

"And  I'd  be  most  awfully  pleased,  too.  .  ,  . 
There  remains  you,  Barbara.  You're  an  important 
accessory  before  the  fact,  you  see." 

"Do  I  love  you,  Kev?" 

"Do  you?  Think  it  over  quietly,  child?"  But  I 
was  wondering  how  much  longer  I  could  control  my- 
self to  this  calmly  impersonal  strain. 

I  picked  up  the  revolver;  and  while  she  thought  it 
over  quietly  at  the  window,  her  back  to  the  room,  I 
amused  myself  by  loading  the  chambers  from  the  bag 
of  cartridges  which  had  likewise  rolled  out  of  the 
suit-case. 

"I'd  rather  marry  you  than  anybody  else  I  know, 
Kev." 

I  was  not  elated  by  the  concession. 


THEDYNASTY  243 

"And — and  it  would  be  an  easy  way  out  of  all  the 
fuss  if  we  went  back  home  to-night  with  the  lie — 
with  the  explanation  you  so  cleverly  invented  just 


now." 


"The  fruits  of  my  imaginative  faculties  are  at  your 


service." 


With  hands  clasped  behind  her  back,  and  soft  chin 
tilted  upwards,  she  gravely  surveyed  me,  while  she 
enumerated  the  various  points  in  favour  of  our  union. 
The  sight  of  her  thus,  cool  and  adorable,  provoked 
me  to  the  same  impulse  of  worshipping  destruction 
as  sometimes  the  first  sight  of  a  wild  cherry  tree  in 
blossom,  its  pure  snows  quite  serenely  unaware  of  a 
black,  screaming  March  sky  behind  it. 

"And  I  feel  safer  with  you  than  with  anybody, 
Kev." 

I  silently  handed  her  the  revolver. 

"Why — why  do  you  give  me  this?" 

"Why  were  you  taking  it  with  you  to  the  bunga- 
low?" 

"But — you're  different  from  .  .  .  me/i,"  she 
pleaded. 

"Men  are  only  one  man  and  another  man  and  an- 
other, put  together.  I'm  one  man,  Babs  .  .  .  and  I 
love  you." 

Slowly  she  laid  down  the  weapon  on  the  desk,  to 
free  her  hands;  held  them  out  towards  me. 

"I'm  not  sure,  Kevin.  But  I'd  like  to  try.  Will 
that  do?     Is  that  good  enough?" 


244  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

[5] 

"It's  what  I  wanted  for  Babs,  all  along!" 

The  Seton  children,  including  Henry  and  Barbara, 
had  been  sent  off  to  bed ;  and  Kate  and  I  were  left  to 
discussion  of  a  confidential  nature. 

'It's  what  I  wanted  the  whole  time  we  were  in  Porth- 
gollan  together." 

"And  you  never  even  let  me  ever  so  remotely  sus- 
pect it!"  I  exclaimed  in  Henry  Jamesian  wonderment. 

She  withered  me  with  a  glance: 

"Sarcasm  doesn't  go  with  your  looks,  young  man!" 

[6] 

We  were  married  in  September  of  1915.  I  had 
applied  for  and  been  allotted  a  job  in  the  War  Office, 
suitable  to  my  decrepit  condition;  and  swept  Barbara 
off  for  a  fortnight's  honeymoon  in  North  Devon,  be- 
fore harsh  walls,  filmed  and  speckled  windows,  the 
smell  of  blotting-paper,  and  the  voices  of  old  men  bid- 
ding other  old  men  file  an  application  for  future  ref- 
erence, finally  encompassed  me. 

.  .  .  Great  slopes  of  bracken,  down  the  low  hills, 
and  breaking  across  the  level  path,  and  slanting  away 
again  to  the  sea's  edge;  russet  and  amber 
shadows,  and  orange  tips  aflame,  and  over  it  all  the 
tremble  and  shimmer  of  purple.  Bracken  waist-high, 
shoulder-high,  brushed  and  broke  against  Barbara's 


THE   DYNASTY  245 

headlong  trample  from  the  hills  down  to  a  strip  of 
sand  invisible  from  above — it  looked  as  though  the 
tawny  waves  and  the  blue-green  waves  met  and 
mingled.  I  lay  half-way,  contentedly  prone  on  the 
oasis  of  moss  and  boulder  and  sawn,  damp  pine-logs, 
and  watched  her  .  .  .  swift,  beautiful  creature  of 
whom  I  had  actually  cheated  the  Larry-dynasty. 
Our  honeymoon  was  drunk  with  bracken,  with  the 
colour  of  it,  and  the  warm,  reeking  fragrance  of  it. 
And  I  gained  again  what  two  or  three  times  before 
had  been  mine — playing  at  kings  and  queens,  for  in- 
stance, among  the  pink  sea-thrift  on  the  Minneys — a 
sense  of  perfect  immunity  from  my  obsession  of 
Larry  Munro,  and  the  exaggerated  perception  of  a 
conspiracy  which  would  ever  award  him  what  was  my 
due.  Was  not  Barbara,  crashing  towards  me  through 
the  bright  sway  of  fern-forest,  proof  of  such  immun- 
ity? Barbara  had  been  beside  me  along  the  sea- 
thrift  too;  hers  was  the  healing  magic;  but  then  she 
had  evaded  me,  and  become  Larry's  property.  Now 
she  was  all  mine,  and  the  healing  would  endure.  I 
exulted  in  my  mind's  lightness  and  liberation  .  .  . 
and  once  or  twice  it  seemed,  quaintly,  as  though  I  only 
desired  still  the  presence  and  comradeship  of  Larry 
himself,  as  token  that  I  could  love  him  without  hate — 
young  dragon-slayer  whom  I  had  last  seen  so  careless 
of  love,  and  taut  for  battle.  I  was  aware  quite  clearly 
that  I  had  been  close  to  madness  that  time  in  Cornwall. 
It   was   just   as   well   that   my   mania    had   passed 


246  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

away  in  a  medley  of  war  and  wounds,  and  later  happi- 
ness; for  with  every  attack  it  had  bitten  a  greater  area 
of  sanity — I  dared  not  contemplate  re-visitation. 
But  the  more  I  thought  of  Larry,  the  less  I  could 
realize  my  sullen  morbid,  raging  hostility — 

I  was  eager  to  talk  about  him  to  Babs,  to  test  my 
new  freedom,  stretch  my  cramped  limbs  in  it  and 
luxuriate.  But  she  was  sensitive  of  hearing 
the  name  of  her  one-time  lover;  linked  on  to  Larry 
were  certain  youthful  exploits  in  the  broken-china 
line  which  she  was  only  too  anxious  to  forget  .  .  . 
and  accustomed  to  Seton  tact  in  the  bulk,  she  would 
watch  me,  in  sidelong  apprehension  of  an  un- 
forgivable reminder,  till,  as  in  amused  mercy  I 
drew  away  from  the  subject,  she  breathed  thank- 
fulness. 

I  wonder  if  Barbara  minded  that  I  could  not  race 
with  her,  buffeting  aside  with  our  bodies  the  rigid 
stems  and  feathery  tufts  of  bracken,  down  and  down 
through  all  that  golden  and  red-brown  splendour,  to 
the  sea's  edge. 

"Let  us  rather  be  philosophical  than  maudlin,  0 
Potter.  And  reflect  with  profit  upon  the  utter  nui- 
sance of  a  slow,  painful,  laborious,  and  tiring  up- 
ward passage  against  the  leaning  bracken,  which  is  the 
penalty  of  all  creatures  whose  legs  of  identical  length 
and  strength  primarily  tempt  them  to  the  folly  of  de- 
scent!" 

I  understood  Potter  to  say,  "Yes,  that  was  all  very 
well,  but " 


THE   DYNASTY  247 

[7] 

As  Larry's  one-time  financee,  Barbara  would  have 
been  an  embarrassing  and  embarrassed  guest  at  the 
house  of  either  Prue  or  Felicity;  and  steadily  refused 
to  visit  either.  I  mentioned  Felicity  once  as  her 
"mother-in-law,"  and  Barbara  stared  perplexed  at 
me,  unaware  at  the  moment  to  whom  I  was  referring. 
Obviously  Felicity  was  still  "that  horrid  woman,"  who 
had  destroyed  her  first  romance.  And  I  am  con- 
vinced that  had  I  spoken  of  "your  daughter-in-law"  to 
Felicity,  she  would  also  have  been  unable  to  locate  an 
allusion  to  "that  girl"  .  .  .  face  which  was  a  smudge 
of  white  horror  suddenly  slipped  into  the  frame  of 
French  windows  between  herself  and  the  garden  be- 
yond ;  wide,  staring  eyes  fixed  on  Larrikin  .  .  .  gone 
.  .  .  and  beyond  the  window,  nothing  more  than  a 
tangle  of  sunlit  greenery.  This  was  all  Felicity  knew 
about  the  wife  of  her  elder  son — "She's  quite  pain- 
fully young,  isn't  she,  Kevin?" — yes,  she  remembered 
that. 

"Twenty." 

"And  does  she  still  adore  Larry?  How  typical  of 
you  to  become  a  mari  complaisant,  Kevin,"  presup- 
posing my  reply  in  the  affirmative;  "especially  as 
they're  so  out-of-date.  You  always  remind  me  of  the 
Tate  Gallery  .  .  .  quite  good  pictures,  but  nobody 
goes  to  see  them  unless  they  can't  afford  a  ticket  for 
the  'New  Group'  exhibition." 

I  offered  my  heartfelt  if  belated  sympathy  to  Prue, 
for  those  disconcerting  moments  when  in  mutual  vigil 


248  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

over  the  shrine,  Felicity  would  waywardly  scatter  the 
sacred  silence  by  irrelevant  and  not  wholly  respectful 
allusion  to  the  late  Larry  Munro;  it  was  her  fash- 
ion not  to  preserve  an  atmosphere  of  hush  round  the 
names  of  the  two  men  she  had  loved.  She  rambled 
on  now,  rather  as  one  takes  a  walk  without  a  fixed 
destination,  about  Larry,  his  doings  in  France,  the 
possibilities  of  his  passionate  return  to  her,  and  the 
reasons  for  his  desertion;  torturing  the  simple,  cruel 
truth  of  the  matter  into  such  ornate  complexity  that, 
tragically,  she  ceased  to  be  tragic  and  became  weari- 
some. Then,  abstractedly  and  quite  without  malice, 
she  knifed  me  again : 

"I  suppose  you  won't  let  your  wife  see  Larry,  when 
he  gets  his  leave?  No,  you're  quite  right  .  .  .  much 
better  not.  If  he  keeps  away,  she  may  learn  to  care 
for  you  in  time,  with  your  looks ;  and  it's 
not  as  though  you  were  stolid  or  unintelligent  .  .  . 
on  the  contrary;  I  wonder  how  it  is  Nina  Barclay  was 
always  crazy  about  you? — but  the  witch  who  cursed 
you  at  birth  must  have  laid  down  a  law  'he  shall  love 
where  he  is  not  loved.'  Are  you  in  love  with  her,  by 
the  way?" 

"The  Hon.  Nina?  No.  She  pesters  me  to  buy 
flags." 

Felicity  had  meant  Barbara,  of  course,  but  she  had 
forgotten  this  by  the  time  I  came  to  the  flags. 

"Is  it  Nina  who  works  up  her  sales  by  displaying  a 
placard  with:  'What  about  Albania?'  on  it?  It 
worries  me  so  because  I'm  not  sure  what  about  it — I 


THE   DYNASTY  249 

mean  whether  I  ought  to  look  revengeful  or  commis- 
erating. I  suppose  it  does  as  well  if  I  gave  her  four- 
pence?  It  seems  silly,  though,  to  the  daughter  of  a 
millionaire-peer.  Have  you  noticed  how  bewil- 
dered a  man  looks,  poor  thing,  when  he  walks  away 
after  the  purchase?  as  though  he  were  a  brute  but  not 
quite  sure  why,  or  whether  the  girls  are  martyrs  of- 
fering themselves  up  for  sacrifice  to  him  or  to  the  cold 
weather  or  to  Gallant  Little  Bosnia,  or  if  he  ought  to 
have  accepted  her  and  refused  her  change,  or  both,  or 
wrapped  her  in  half  his  overcoat  like  the  saints.  .  .  . 
Why  will  they  dress  them  in  white  muslin  in  a  high 
wind?  It's  really  asking  for  it  in  a  way;  a  nice  man 
walking  away  is  bound  to  feel  rather  like  the  answer 
to  the  old  riddle — 'No,  thanks,  I  don't  do  that  either!' 
It  wasn't  a  riddle,  though — it  was  heard  in  a  railway- 
carriage " 

"Which  reminds  me,  when  is  the  children's  half- 
term  holiday?  I  thought  of  running  down  to  Thyme 
Croft." 

(A  slightly  hysterical  version  of  my  impolite  reply 
to  the  Hon.  Nina  Barclay  when  she  offered  me  a 
flag:  "No  thanks,"  etc.,  was  soon  in  circulation 
throughout  London;  I  suppose  I  clouded  Felicity's 
accuracy  by  my  abrupt  interruption.) 

"Oh,  I've  arranged  for  Larrikin  to  be  brought  up 
for  the  half -holiday;  I've  promised  him  Maskelyne 
and  Devant's,  with  ices  before  and  after.  The 
monkey!  he  actually  dares  to  stipulate  his  own  terms. 
He  can't  write  yet,  so  he  dictates  them  to  Yo." 


250  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

I  raised  my  brows.  "And  does  Yo  likewise  stipu- 
late, or  only  draw  up  the  treaty?" 

"Two  children  are  a  nuisance  to  take  out,"  said 
Felicity  evasively.  "Has  Prue  got  the  workmen  out 
of  her  house  yet?" 

"Why — ^how  did  you  know?" 

"I  passed  there.  She'll  be  cross  if  they  hang  about 
too  long  .  .  .  the  stair-carpet — Prue  was  always  so 
funny  about  that  ugly  old  stair-carpet.  .  .  ." 

[8] 

"Babs!" 

"Yes,  dear?"  She  looked  up  inquiringly  at  my 
impetuous  return  from  a  visit  to  Thyme  Croft. 

"Babs."  Again  I  halted.  And  if  ever  a  mono- 
syllable implied  guilt,  embarrassment,  confession, 
shame,  and  a  plea  for  pardon,  my  double  pronounce- 
ment of  her  name  must  have  done  so. 

"You've  backed  a  horse,"  asserted  Barbara  posi- 
tively, "and  it  has  lost,  heavily."  She  prepared 
herself  to  face  ruin. 

"War-time?  You're  mediaeval,  my  child.  Look 
here,  Babs."  I  crossed  the  room,  bent  over  her 
from  behind,  and  took  her  hands.  Some  difficult 
negotiation  lay  before  me,  and  miust  not  be 
unduly  rushed.  .  .  .  "Do  you  remember  Neb- 
uchadnezzar?" 

One  might  have  thought,  after  two  years,  that  the 
topic    of    the    late    field-mouse,    however    abruptly 


THE    DYNASTY  251 

brought  into  conversation,  was  a  safe  one.  But  Bar- 
bara's lips  quivered — "The  darling,  oh,  the  darling! 
it  died.  .  .  .  Oh,  Kev,  the  way  its  rough  wee  pink 
tongue  scraped  my  finger!  and  its  little  blue  shrivelled 
nose!" 

"Quite  so.  Well — I've  brought  Yo  home  and 
adopted  her,"  impatiently  in  a  phrase  scattering  my 
own  diplomacy. 

"Yo?" 

"My  little  step-sister." 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  a  step-sister,  Kevin." 
Barbara  was  utterly  perplexed. 

"My  dear — think  a  minute." 

"Larry's?"  she  whispered  after  a  pause.  From 
my  lounging  attitude  over  the  back  of  her  chair  I 
could  only  see  her  cheek's  pure  inexpressive  curve — 
but  her  hands  had  pulled  away  from  mine. 

"Can't  you  trust  me,  dear?  Babs — you  brought 
Nebuchadnezzar  home  with  you  that  time." 

I  may  have  been  relying  ignominiously  on  a  dead 
field-mouse  of  tender  years — but  my  memory  of 
Barbara's  one  introduction  to  Yo  was  not  encourag- 
ing. And  when  a  man  is  married,  he  cannot  very  well 
introduce  stray  children  as  a  permanency  into  the 
home,  without  some  little  approval  from  his  wife.  I 
was  feverishly  anxious  to  gain  Barbara's  approval  for 
an  act  of  which  I  could  not  possibly  explain  to  her 
the  full  significance. 

For  the  conspiracy  was  working  downwards 
through  the  generations — and  as  I  in  childhood  had 


252  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

suffered  from  Larry's  absorption  of  the  love  due  to 
me,  here  again  was  Yo,  mute  and  fierce  and  dogged, 
in  the  like  situation.  Easy  for  me  to  divine  what 
it  cost  her  to  see  Felicity  metaphorically  bleeding 
tenderness  over  Larrikin — son  of  her  second  love, 
who  was  son  of  her  first  love;  for  there  was  no 
one  but  Larry  and  Larry  and  again  Larry  .  .  .  but 
the  pressure  against  Yo's  very  existence  must  have 
been  suffocating.  And  if  I  did  not  rescue  her,  who 
would?  Who  but  I  could  divine  to  a  fraction  of 
detail  the  waxing  exasperation  of  the  Larry-saga 
perpetually  sung,  Larry-idolatry  perpetually  prac- 
tised? ...  Yo  came  in  nowhere,  had  no  chance, 
was  not  studied,  received  no  petting,  was  never 
assigned  the  occasional  throne  of  importance  so  sooth- 
ing to  one's  infant  self-esteem.  Yo  was  superfluous — 
not  even  the  victim  of  active  cruelty.  Oh,  I  knew — I 
knew  life  up  against  Larry  was  one  eternal  bruise. 
And  in  a  very  passion  of  pity,  a  final  surge  of  hot 
indignation  at  some  trivial  neglect  of  her  which  I 
had  today  witnessed,  I  announced  my  intention  to 
Felicity  of  adopting  the  child — "What  curious  things 
you  do,  Kevin!"  — and  swept  her  off  with  me  then  and 
there.  Indeed,  free  of  the  web  as  I  was  myself, 
it  seemed  my  plain  'duty — if  the  word  "plain"  could 
be  used  at  all  in  connection  with  our  ravelled  desti- 
nies. Also  it  pleased  me  to  think  that  I  had  baffled  the 
conspiracy  of  its  victim.  And  it  was  not  until  we 
were  in  Middle  Inn  Gardens,  and  practically  pn  the 


THE   DYNASTY  253 

tlireshold  of  my  door,  that  I  remembered  how  special 
strands  of  the  web  had  once  knotted  and  stretched  and 
snapped  between  Barbara  Seton  and  Felicity  and 
those  babes  of  Larry  Munro.  .  .  . 

What  would  Barbara  say? 

But  Barbara  astonished  me  by  a  show  of  impulsive 
common  sense:  "Well,  as  you  say  she  wasn't  happy 
at  home,  she  mustn't  stop  at  home,  poor  baby! — and 
that's  an  end  of  it.  And  now,"  triumphantly,  "we 
can  move  out  of  these  smoky,  poky  dens  of  yours,  into 
an  'airy  and  commodious  residence'  with  a  garden,  fit 
for  children  to  romp  in.  Hempstead  Heath  would 
be  jolly." 

"Rather  too  large,  surely?" 

She  routed  my  sarcasm  with  energy:  "I'll  go 
and  rent  a  house  tomorrow,  and  take  Yo  with  me — 
and  then  we'll  go  and  buy  a  cot  and  ices,  and  a 
rocking-horse  and  some  rabbits — it's  a  good  thing 
you're  fairly  rich,  Kevin,  and  it's  no  good  grumbling 
at  expense — you'll  never  be  able  to  do  that  again  now 
— "  as  though  I  had  ever  dared  to  do  so  before! 
"How  old  is  she,  by  the  way?  and  has  she  got  any  lug- 
gage? Oh,  and  where  is  the  kiddie  herself? 
Kevin,"  furiously  stamping  her  foot  at  me,  "you 
haven't  been  idiot  enough  to  leave  her  standing  down- 
stairs as  though  she  wasn't  wanted?  How  could 
you?"  My  wife  flew  out  of  the  front  door,  and  I 
limped  after  her  .  .  .  then,  smiling,  halted  on  the 
first  landing — and  listened.  .  .  , 


254  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

I  legalized  our  adoption  of  Yo,  so  that  there  should 
be  no  future  interrogation  about  it.  Queer  that  there 
was  no  need  to  change  the  name — officially  she  was 
already  Yolande  Somers,  my  father's  name.  But 
Gilbert  Somers  stood  so  far  away  in  time  and  in 
humanity  from  this  scrap  of  a  child,  that  "Yo 
Somers,"  still  struck  me  with  a  sense  of  inapplication 
and  shock. 

Yo  throve  in  transplantation,  but  rendered  up 
neither  her  fierceness  nor  her  reticence.  We  all 
respected  each  other's  secrets,  however,  and  so  got  on 
capitally.  I  was  not  sure  if  she  missed  Larrikin,  if 
she  had  hated  or  loved  him — or  both,  as  one  was 
wont  to  do  with  all  the  Larrys.  Certainly  she  never 
demanded  to  go  home;  never  spoke  of  home,  nor 
of  Felicity;  and  scowled  rather  less  defiantly  at  the 
outer  world  than  of  yore,  through  her  shaggy  gold 
mop. 

And  once  or  twice,  bathed  and  flushed  and  ready 
for  bed,  I  saw  her  as  a  mere  naked,  cuddlesome 
baby  on  Barbara's  lap;  her  toes  kicking  rapturously 
at  the  prospect  of  a  romp;  or  else  too  drowsy  even 
to  appreciate  the  story  on  which  her  latent  sense 
of  privilege  sternly  insisted. 

"Not  wild  beasts  tonight;  it  makes  her  dream, 
Kev." 

"But,  Babs,  she  doesn't  like  any  other  kind." 

"Try  her  with  a  fairy  tale — not  too  priggish,  of 
course,  but — Oh,  green  and  gold,  with  three  wishes 


THE   DYNASTY  255 

and  a  red  rose-bud,  and  a  talking  frog,  and  a  glass 
mountain,  and  a  happy  ending.  Try  it,  it's  quite 
easy!" 

I  promised  miserably  to  do  my  best.  But  under 
Yo's  subtle  tutelage,  the  talking  frog  permitted  to 
us  became  a  sweet  little  grey  squirrel;  and  the  sweet 
little  grey  squirrel  became  a  friendly  grey  wolf, 
and  the  friendly  part  of  it  somehow  became 
hungry.  .  .  . 

"And  so  nothing  was  left  of  the  gallant  young 
prince  except  a  few  splinters  and  shreds  which  Beauty 
gathered  up  and  gave  decent  burial  under  the  red 
rose-bush " 

''Kevin!''''  a  horrified  Barbara  entered  with  the 
night-light,  and  stood  like  a  reproaching  angel  above 
the  small  bed  across  which  I  lay,  recumbent  but 
unrepentant. 

"You  told  me  to  bring  in  a  red  rose-bush,  and  I 
did.  And  the  three  wishes  came  in  quite  handy — 
the  hungry  grey  wolf  wished  most  ardently  for  the 
prince's  heart,  and  the  prince's  lungs,  and  the  prince's 
liver " 

"And  he  got  'em,  too!"  put  in  Yo,  with  a  shriek 
of  retrospective  delight. 

"So  you  see  it  wus  a  happy  ending — from 
the  wolf's  point  of  view.  And  you're  doing  me  a 
bitter  injustice." 

Babs  put  down  the  night-light  beside  the  cot;  and 
slipped  one  arm  round  Yo's  warm  body,  excitedly 


256  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

plunging  up  and  down  in  my  defence,  the  other  arm 
about  my  shoulders.  "You're  nothing  but  a  big 
brown  baby  .  .  ."  she  whispered. 

[9] 

Our  son  was  born  in  the  autumn  of  1916. 

John  Roger  Somers,  during  the  first  year  of  his 
undistinguished  babyhood,  did  not,  I  confess,  enchain 
me  greatly.  I  had  expected  that  the  helpless,  feeble 
clutch  of  his  wee  fingers  would  tug  at  my  heart  and 
arouse  it  to  an  unspeakable  ecstasy  of  tenderness — 
as  happens  among  the  Very  Best  Fathers.  But  .  .  . 
well,  Barbara  had  nearly  died  against  the  wall  of 
that  brutal  cul-de-sac  down  which  Nature  forces  her 
women.  And  I  fancied  that  her  involuntary  look 
at  me  when  I  entered  the  room  afterwards,  held  a 
child's  reproachful:  "Why  did  you  let  it  be  as  bad 
as  this?"  ...  By  the  time  she  was  well  again, 
forgetfulness  had  folded  petal-wise  over  the  agony 
of  those  hours.  .  .  .  But  I  remembered — and 
frankly,  I  did  not  consider  John  Roger  worth  it. 

Neither  did  Yo.  She  stated,  when  pressed  for  an 
opinion,  that  she  could  just  pnt  up  with  John  Roger 
by  assuming  that  he  would  one  day  figure  usefully  in 
her  games  as  an  animal  cub.  And  as  Cub,  or  Cubby, 
he  was  henceforth  known  to  the  household. 

I  cannot  account  for  the  bog  of  utter  depression 
in  which  I  found  myself  stuck  during  the  spring  and 
summer  and  autumn  of  1917.     Logically  I  was  quite 


THE   DYNASTY  257 

unjustified.  With  a  wife  I  adored;  a  pleasant  home; 
a  fine  son;  no  money  worries;  a  serene  consciousness 
of  having  done  my  bit  in  the  war,  with  just  sufficient 
damage  to  cancel  necessity  of  future  effort,  and  not 
sufficient  to  render  existence  an  actual  misery. 

Oh,  yes,  yes  .  .  .  but  all  this  .  .  .  while  the 
Germans  were  retreating  from  the  Somme  battle- 
fields back  to  their  much-vaunted  Hindenburg  line. 
While  the  Vimy  and  Messines  ridges  had  fallen.  .  .  . 
Later,  when  the  bells  pealed  our  victory  at  Cambrai — 
our  defeat  at  Cambrai.  .  .  . 

And  Larry's  letters,  short,  urgent,  slang-bitten 
letters,  crammed  with  that  unfailing  exultation  which 
the  airman  especially  seems  to  have  wrung  for  him- 
self out  of  Armageddon — made  me  feel  as  though  I 
had  never  been  in  the  war;  that  my  one  month's  grey 
bubble,  blown  from  froth  and  glimmer  of  soapsud 
dreams,  had  collapsed  so  long  ago  as  to  be  forgotten, 
uncounted  in  any  contemporary  reckoning  or  future 
acclamation  of  the  dragon-slayers. 

Legend  had  already  sprung  out  of  a  certain  fasci- 
nating fantastic  quality  in  these  mere  boys  from 
school  and  college,  who  invertedly  had  become 
immortal  while  they  still  lived  and  battled;  far-away 
heroes  of  romance  in  the  very  stress  and  zenith  of 
their  enjoyment  of  being. 

In  the  old  days  a  man  fought  and  was  mostly 
inarticulate;  one  hailed  him  as  a  soldier  merely. 
Or  else  he  was  a  poet,  weak  in  body  but  great  in 


258  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

creation,  whose  sole  task  was  beautifully  to  exploit 
the  soldier.  But  nowadays,  strangely,  it  seemed  that 
the  young  soldier  and  the  young  poet  had  established 
a  communion  of  one;  blended  strength  of  limb  and 
unashamed  imagination.  They  could  join  up,  and 
proudly  hail  their  very  selves  as  chosen,  privileged 
and  glorious;  they  could  vaunt  their  own  Crusade  in 
the  midst  of  conflict;  and  eventually  sing  their  own 
requiem.  The  youth  of  the  Great  War  was  still 
youth  as  it  had  always  been — careless  of  danger, 
impatient  of  "swank,"  keen  on  "stunts."  They  had 
their  creed  and  their  jargon,  in  the  old  way — but 
in  a  queer  new  way  they  were  inspired  to  detached 
vision  of  themselves  as  a  picked  and  exalted  brother- 
hood of  dragon-slayers.  It  was  an  age  of  restless 
brains  and  consciousness  sharpened  to  a  point;  even 
before  the  war,  youth  had  been  in  an  impassioned 
turmoil,  alternately  philosophic,  questioning,  and 
rebellious;  ambitions  broken  off  at  the  start  for  very 
haste  to  achieve  the  end ;  feverish  digging  for  beauty, 
as  though  a  cold  whisper  were  already  astir  that 
beauty  lay  too  deep  for  their  predestined  limited 
time  on  earth.  And  then,  an  answer  to  the  question 
of  frank,  mutinous  eyes  under  their  thoughtful 
brows,  this  vital  necessity  to  say  all  that  was  to  be  said 
as  rapidly  and  as  simply  as  possible  ...  or  they 
would  be  lost;  for  an  invitation  had  arrived  to  enlist 
for  Death  in  Good  Company ;  and  must  unhesitatingly 
be  accepted. 


THE   DYNASTY  259 

And  we  went — God,  yes — at  least  I  was  in  that! — 
the  first  thronging  rush  to  arms;  those  first  weeks  of 
blindfold  enthusiasm,  of  lean  and  arduous  training, 
of  readiness  poised  for  whatever  contingency.  But — 
I  had  soon  forfeited  my  place  in  the  good  company — 
left  without  even  the  stale  comfort  of  wheezing  and 
chuckling  about  my  entirely  ordinary  experiences, 
with  my  fellow- veterans ;  experiences  that  were  over- 
laid, fifty  times  overlaid  by  now,  with  names  and 
news  perpetually  dropping;  for  people  in  war-time 
ride  on  the  swift  edge  of  the  present  hour  .  .  .  and 
reminiscences  of  a  month  in  the  quiet  part  of  the  line 
in  1915  could  be  wedged  nowhere  into  the  packed 
chronicles  of  1917. 

My  useful  job  at  the  War  Office  might  receive  due 
printed  acknowledgment  from,  posterity — but  it  had 
very  little  apparent  bearing  on  the  war  itself. 

I  would  grow  old  and  prosy  and  slothful  in  a  world 
for  which  the  dragon-slayers  had  died;  their  moment 
of  death  would  harden  and  get  fixed  into  a  glorious 
frieze  round  the  very  rim  of  the  world  .  .  .  and  so 
their  vivid  youth  would  endure,  and  their  gallantry. 
But  dragons  would  rear  their  heads  again,  as  dragons 
are  bound  to  do.  And  I,  grown  older,  grown  old, 
would  merely  yawn  in  forgetfulness  of  effort,  and 
bid  the  lads  go  into  the  strife,  and  leave  me  to  the 
benefits  of  my  years.  And  finally  I  would  die,  die 
and  be  dead,  as  the  dragon-slayers  had  never 
died.  .  .  . 


260  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

[10] 

I  was  saved  from  this  swamp  of  selfish  melancholy 
— which  must  have  been  excessively  trying  for  all 
those  who  had  perforce  to  live  with  me — by  the  fact 
of  the  Cub  going  into  knickerbockers.  "He  won't 
be  two  till  September,  and  this  is  only  March — ^but 
look  at  the  size  of  him,  Kevin !  he's  going  to  be  as  big 
and  broad  as  you.  And  he's  simply  ridiculous  in 
dainty  muslin  frocks." 

I  duly  looked  at  my  son;  at  his  sturdy,  round, 
brown  limbs  bursting  out  of  their  confining  brown 
jersey  suit;  at  his  smooth,  round,  brown  head;  an  air 
of  indifferent  challenge  in  the  round,  brown,  back- 
curve  of  him,  as  he  bent  over  a  wooden  horse  on 
wheels.  And  I  discovered  that  the  Cub  was  irresist- 
ible, and  that  the  Cub  was  mine. 

I  suppose  this  sudden  conversion  on  my  part, 
corresponded  with  the  heart-throb  that  ought  to  have 
occurred  when  the  feeble  clutch  of  baby  fingers,  etc. ; 
I  was  a  year  and  a  half  late  with  my  paternal 
emotions.  It  was  not  the  Cub's  helplessness  which 
appealed  to  me,  however, — it  was  an  emanation  from 
him  of  solemn  trust  that  the  world  was  good,  trust  that 
it  was  my  obvious  business  to  preserve  whole  and  un- 
chipped. 

Even  when  passionate,  Cubby  somehow  gave  an 
impression  of  deep  inner  serenity  which  was  sure 
that  this  annoying  surface  vexation  would  soon  right 
itself.  And  his  uncontrollable  gurgles  of  mirth,  and 
deep  baying  shouts  when  enthusiasm  was  aroused. 


THE   DYNASTY  261 

Oh — call  me  a  fool!  call  him  an  ordinary  small 
boy  like  other  small  boys,  as  no  doubt  he  was.  But, 
witness  Micky  and  Larrikin,  the  genus  at  all  ages  held 
a  special  attraction  for  me ;  and  Cubby  was  mine, 
made  in  my  image — and  out  of  my  love  for  Barbara. 

He  was  very  much  a  Seton  by  temperament. 
There  was  no  fantasy  about  the  Setons;  they  were 
real;  likewise  Cubby.  I  should  have  been  bitterly 
ashamed  of  a  child  who  was  wistful  and  frail  and 
misunderstood.  .  .  . 

Through  Cubby,  my  peevish  outlook  on  the  war 
adjusted  itself:  We  were  fighting  for  the  next 
generation;  Cubby  was  the  next  generation.  Even 
the  war  was  simple,  whittled  down  to  personal 
application.  And  though  I  still  chafed  at  my  in- 
action, I  would  not  willingly  have  missed  this  precious 
development  of  Cubby  into  a  man  and  a  brother. 

"Tinker,  tailor,  soldier,  sailor." 

"Which?"  Kate  asked,  beaming  on  a  son-in-law 
who  had  shown  sufficient  intelligence  not  to  encumber 
the  Seton  family  with  yet  another  nice,  normal  girl. 
I  shudder  to  think  how  our  novelist  would  have 
blasphemed  had  Barbara  dared  to  repeat  her  sex! 

"Tinker,  I  think!" 

We  were  spending  a  week's  holiday,  vouchsafed 
me  by  my  department,  at  The  Shoe — Kate  and  Henry, 
Babs,  Yo,  Cubby  and  myself.  Ned  was  in  Meso- 
potamia, and  Micky  drilling  vigorously  in  the  O.T.C. 

"Soldiers  will  be  extinct,  a  rara-avis  in  the  great 


262  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

World-Peacd  following  this  great  World-War — 
I  dorCt  fink,  as  Yo  would  say.  Sailor? — sailors  are 
bound  to  be  agile,  for  the  hauling  of  ropes  and  the 
dancing  of  hornpipes.  The  Cub,  you  may  have 
observed,  is  fundamentally  slow-moving." 

"I'm  glad  of  it,"  said  Kate;  "he  is  not  far  from 
the  edge  of  the  cliff  now,  and  advancing  steadily 
towards  it,  but  if,  as  you  say,  he's  slow-moving,  it 
may  give  Babs  time  to  reach  him.  .  .  ." 

We  lay  among  the  sandhills,  and  watched  Barbara, 
with  flying  hair  spread  to  dry  after  bathing,  and  in 
appearance  still  very  much  the  goose-girl  of  nursery 
rhymes,  running  swiftly  in  the  distance  to  the  rescue 
of  her  offspring. 

"We  won't  look,"  Kate  remarked  cheerily;  "it's 
best  not;  pull  your  hat  over  your  eyes,  Kevin;  I'll 
tell  you  when  the  worst  has  happened.  What  about 
tailor?" 

"If  he  inherits  his  grandam's  instinct  of  cut  and 
colour — no.  Tell  me,  Kate,  are  you  now  wearing 
the  identical  red  plush  tea-gown  and  bare  feet  in 
which  you  first  greeted  my  arrival  at  The  Shoe?" 

"The  same  feet,  but — let  me  see,  the  fourteenth  of 
a  long  line  of  tea-gowns.  Why  not?  I  detest 
thinking  out  fresh  fashions — and  red  suits  me." 

"And  what's  happened  to  the  other  thirteen?" 

"Your  son  is  saved — you  miay  look  again. 
Saved  to  be  a  tinker." 

"A  philosophic  tinker.  The  type  that  rambles  and 
ruminates,  of  a  kind  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea, 


THE    DYNASTY  263 

but  only  in  picaresque  fiction.  A  shrewd  and  wise 
and  contented  tinker.  Is  it  my  fancy,  Kate,  that 
Cubby  is  by  nature  shrewd  and  wise  and  contented, 
as  well  as  altogether  beautiful  and  remarkable?" 

"Not  a  patch  on  Micky.  But  a  tolerably  nice 
child.  Pull  yourself  together,  Kevin.  You  always 
had  a  trick  of  over-estimating  people;  there  was  that 
very  ordinary  young  man,  Larry  Munro,  for 
instance.  ..." 

[11] 

^'Dear  old  Kev, 

"Got  back  to  the  crowd  here  after  four 
days  in  Paris,  to  find  the  Bosche  very  active  and 
hostile,  and  plenty  much  work  doing.  Had  a  top-hole 
time  in  Paris.  I  went  down  the  line  in  a  lorry, 
officially  to  examine  some  new  Ack-ack  sights  for  the 
Lewis  gun,  but  really  to  live  for  a  while  in  splendour 
and  magnificence  at  the  Hotel  Elysee.  Arrived  in 
Paris  and  bathed  luxuriously,  and  clad  myself  in  my 
most  elegant  gent's  flying  suiting.  After  lapping  up 
two  very  fine  cocktails — remind  me  to  show  you  how 
to  make  them  one  day,  old  man — I  sallied  forth  in 
search  of  adventure.  By  extraordinary  luck  I  ran 
into  Armand  St.  Just,  Captain  of  Chasseurs  Alpins, 
and  as  smart  as  paint.  I  met  him  once  when  he  was 
pretending  to  be  a  liaison  officer,  and  found  him  a 
thoroughly  stout  fellow.  We  saluted  on  both  cheeks 
— like  the  Kaiser  and  the  King — or  isn't  this  tactful? 


264  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

'Ce  cher  St.  Just!'  'Munro,  mon  gars,  you  have  the 
leave,  yes?     Then  will  I  show  you  Paris.' 

"He  did — and  with  such  zest  that  I  missed  my 

train  to  B ,  where  I  had  to  meet  a  draft  and  take 

'em  along.  I  arrived  about  five  hours  late,  and 
sought  out  the  R.T.O.  He,  of  course,  was  nowhere 
to  be  found — probably  tasting  rum  to  see  it  wasn't 
too  fierce  for  our  gallant  lads,  etc.,  etc.  However, 
I  found  a  sergeant,  who  was  quite  sympathetic,  but 
could  offer  no  solution.  The  damned  R.T.O.  had 
gone  off  in  his  car,  the  swine,  or  I'd  have  felled  him 
and  pinched  it. 

"Eventually  I  slid  off,  and  drifted  into  an  estaminet 
in  the  Rue  de  St.  Paul;  I  was  the  only  visitor,  and  I 
was  served  by  the  fair  hands  of — Marie  Blanche,  her 
name  was,  Kev,  and  not  half  bad!  She  adored  me  at 
once,  and  by-and-bye  I  found  myself  telling  her  all 
my  troubles.  'Attendez,  monsieur' — she  rushed  into 
the  back  room,  and  returned  shortly,  proudly 
wheeling  a  push-bike — a  girl's  push-bike,  Kev,  at 
least  a  hundred  years  old!  But  it  might  save  me — 
I  gave  her  20  francs  for  it — all  I  had  left — and 
kissed  her  rather  wistful  little  mouth;  then  I  rode  off 
amid  fanfares  of  trumpets  and  loud  shouts  of  delight 
from  the  populace. 

"I  knew  the  general  direction,  the  roads  happened 
to  be  pretty  good,  and  you  know  what  troop  trains  are 
in  France.  After  four  hours  or  so  good  solid 
pedalling,  I  found  the  train  lying  about  in  a  field  and 


THE   DYNASTY  26b 

hooting  disconsolately.     I  threw  my  trusty  bike  away 
and  sprang  aboard  .  .  .  and  that's  all. 

"How's  Yo?  I've  often  wondered  why  you 
adopted  her — you're  a  queer  devil,  Kev.  But  bring 
her  up  not  to  smoke  till  she's  in  her  teens,  and  keep 
your  language  pure  in  her  presence,  and  she  may 
grow  up  a  credit  to  me!  I  heard  when  I  was  in 
Blighty  about  six  months  ago  that  you  were  also  a 
father!  My  daughter  to  your  son  .  .  .  wot  about  it? 
Pity  the  ages  don't  fit. 

"Love  to  Babs. 

"Yours, 

"Larry." 

Somebody  plucked  at  a  muted  string,  and  it 
twanged  once,  irritably.  .  .  .  Then  a  voice  said, 
laughing:     "Banjo  solos  for  two.  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  jolly  letter;  I  read  it  to  Barbara,  and  we 
both  reviled  Larry  for  not  having  hunted  us  up  when 
on  his  last  leave — "But  these  R.A.F.  fellows  choose 
to  have  a  roaring  time  when  they  get  back — and  we're 
a  bit  domestic  with  our  houseful  of  brats." 

"Only  one  of  them  happens  to  be  Larry's 
brat,"  she  reminded  me  gaily  .  .  .  Then,  as  though 
at  the  sound  of  her  words,  the  hot  blood  crept  slowly 
up  her  neck  and  poured  into  her  cheeks. 

The  children  were  playing  with  a  giant  Noah's  Ark 
on  the  lawn  quite  near.  She  called  out:  "Yo,  I've 
got    a    treat    for    you — conie    indoors!"     The    two 


266  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

whispered  eagerly  for  an  instant,  Bab's  lips  pressed 
against  Yo's  ear;  then,  the  latter  hurrahing  at 
the  top  of  her  pitch,  they  ran  into  the  house. 

Cubby,  suddenly  abandoned,  looked  round  for  his 
playmate,  then  for  his  mother.  Finding  neither,  he 
pondered  awhile;  then  pugnaciously  decided  to  make 
the  best  of  it  and  not  cry,  .  .  .  but  there  seemed 
to  me  a  forlorn  quality  in  his  back  curve  as  he  bent  to 
pick  up  the  animals  knocked  over  by  Yo  in  her 
flight. 

Always  susceptible  to  the  Cub's  back  curve,  I  was 
slightly  annoyed  with  Barbara — ^Why  should  not  the 
treat  have  been  equally  for  both  babies? 

The  little  scene,  just  over,  re-enacted  its  gestures  in 
my  brain  as  though  by  clockwork  marionettes.  .  .  . 
It  was  entirely  familiar;  had  happened  before,  a  great 
deal  oftener  than  once;  only  /  was  Cubby  and 

With  the  shattering  violence  that  burst  apart  the 
very  seams  of  the  sky,  the  old  sick  Larry-conspiracy 
pounced  on  me  out  of  the  past.  .  .  . 

Screaming,  it  shook  me,  twisted  me  and  tore  me: 
"You  did  it  yourself!  You  did  it  yourself!"  Yes, 
I,  who  in  my  arrogance  had  thought  to  have  escaped 
from  the  cursed  zone,  had  deliberately  gone  back 
into  it  to  fetch  out  Yo  and  lift  her  into  this  established 
sanctuary,  Larry's  child  with  my  child. 

Oh,  the  conspiracy  was  not  by  any  means  worn  out. 
Of  far  too  diabolically  tough  and  sinuous  material,  it 
had  merely  stretched  its  capacity  for  torture  into  the 
next  generation. 


THE   DYNASTY  267 

Cubby.  .  .  . 

"Cub — take  that  poultry  out  of  your  mouth." 

Sorrowfully  he  eyed  me.  I  repeated  my 
command,  sure  that  that  peculiarly  vivid  shade  of 
cockscomb  was  not  wholesome.  He  took  it  out  of 
his  mouth  and  threw  it  at  me — then  sat  down  plumply 
on  the  grass  and  chuckled,  happy  again.  .  .  . 

Cubby  had  got  to  remain  happy,  if  I  murdered  Yo 
for  it. 

Up  till  now,  I  had  been  deadly  afraid  that  this  new 
phase  of  an  old  drama  would  reduce  me  to  madness. 
I  had  been  near  enough  to  it  that  last  time  in  Corn- 
wall, and  through  the  reeling  air  had  dinged  a 
warning.  .  .  .  But  now  I  was  no  more  afraid.  The 
decision  had  spurted  with  such  simplicity  straight  out 
of  the  instinct  of  self-preservation.  For  my  son  was 
myself,  a  thousand  times  intensified.  Wliilst  the 
conspiracy  had  been  personally  directed  against  ego, 
my  hate  of  Larry  was  too  intricate,  too  tangled  up 
with  love,  to  allow  of  stark  action.  But  what 
threatened  the  Cub  and  his  peace  of  mind  went 
beyond  all  complexity ;  and  I  was  sane  in  his  defence, 
so  sane  that  it  felt  as  though  the  clean,  steeled  edges 
of  my  mind  could  clash  and  cut. 

If  Yo  were  perilous  to  one  fraction  of  his  present 
and  his  future  happiness,  then  Yo  must  be  eliminated. 
Elimination,  if  it  were  to  be  complete,  meant  murder. 
I,  lonely  sentry  who  had  betrayed  my  vigil,  was  the 
only  possible  murderer. 


268  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

This  settled  ("It's  aU  right,  Cubby,  old 
man"  .  .  .)  I  could  begin  to  think  matters  out  in 
detail  and  at  leisure.  I  was  rather  interested  in  the 
recurring  process  of  this  Larry-conspiracy.  .  .  . 

"It  isn't  a  personal  matter  at  all — Prue  and  Felicity 
met  and  broke  over  Larry  Munro — but  there  were 
two  Larry s,  and  then  a  third.  And  three  times  I 
stretched  out  to  Felicity  across  Larry  Munro  and  his 
son  and  his  grandson,  and  couldn't  reach  her,  touch 
her  even.  .  .  .  Then  Barbara  came  into  it — Larry 
and  I,  and  Barbara  between  us.  And  I  won.  And 
now  Yo  and  the  Cub  are  in  it — and  I've  lost  what  I 
won  .  .  .  that  doesn't  matter.  Only  that  /  of  all 
people  should  have  tried  to  save  Yo  from  being 
cramped  out  of  existence  by  Larrikin,  in  his  well- 
known  way — The  Conspirator  must  have  intended 
that — cynical  old  brute!  Babs  and  Yo — Babs  with 
Larry's  child — how  could  I  miss  the  significance? — 
I  had  seen  a  mother  before  with  Larry's  child  instead 
of  her  own — seen?  felt  it  .  .  .  and  then  to  blunder 
stupidly,  incredibly — But  the  Cub  wasn't  bom  then 
— my  son. 

"My  son — ^Larry's  daughter — So  Babs  still  loves 
him — best." 

That  hurt  for  a  moment.  I  suppressed  the  hurt 
sternly.  Except  as  they  affected  the  Cub,  my  conclu- 
sions were  squandered.  For  this  was  not  an  aimless 
spilling  of  hate  upon  the  ground,  as  when  in  Cornwall 
I  had  witnessed  Larry's  intrusion.  He  had  intruded 
again — or  the  symbol  representing  him — and  I  must 


THE   DYNASTY  269 

lop  away  incoherence  and  waste  of  emotion,  concen- 
trate on  vital  attack — ^that  the  Cub  should  fulfil  his 
life;  that  the  Cub  should  not  be  drained  slowly,  help- 
lessly, unknowingly  as  I  had  been  drained  by  that — 
that  damnable  abstraction! 

"For  it  is  an  abstraction,  the  Larry  conspiracy. 
.  .  .  You  suffer  it — like  Fate.  Or  machinery, 
grinding  itself  out.  .  .  .  Oh,  some  conspirator  must 
have  originally  planned  the  machinery — Yet  it  almost 
seems  too  elaborate  to  be  focussed  entirely  on  to 
one  quivering  spot  of  life — ours — mine — 

" — Can  the  whole  universe  be  worked  on  this 
system?     Every  man  with  his  inevitable  Larry?".  .  . 

"Kevin,  you'll  be  late — it's  a  quarter  to  nine. 
And  the  King  of  Cornwall  is  due  at  Whitehall.  What 
an  old  dreamy -head  you've  been,  just  lately!" 

"Right,  dear.  And  I'll  get  the  seats  on  my  way 
back — for  Saturday  night  do  we  want  them?  Did 
Micky  say  he  could  manage  it?     Good  old  Micky!" 

.  .  .  "Two  inside  .  .  .  full  up  now  .  .  .  Outside 
only — I  said  outside  only,  sir  .  .  .  Sorry,  sir, 
didn't  notice.  .  .  .     Get  in.  .  .  ." 

Umbrellas,  and  the  stuffy  smell  of  wet  skirts  in 
the  omnibus.  If  any  penalty  of  crippledom  is  un- 
utterably boring  and  degrading  and  horrible,  it's  the 
necessity  for  ever  to  ride  inside — 

Every  man  with  his  inevitable  Larry? 

I  was  sure  now,  and  for  several  days  past  I  had 


270  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

been  sure,  that  the  idea  which  had  toppled  to  me  out 
of  space,  solved  the  Conspirator's  perplexing  riddle. 
.  .  .  The  Mad  Hatter  had  been  the  first  to  shriek  it: 
"No  room!  No  room!"  "There's  plenty  of  room!" 
said  Alice — and  sat  down.  But  the  Mad  Hatter  knew 
best. 

Where  two  humans  existed  were  only  space  and 
place  for  one;  love  for  one;  achievement  for  one. 
Each  man,  dimly  aware  of  this  pressure,  would,  if 
asked,  own  to  a  particular  aversion  that  a  certain  other 
individual  should  have  all  the  luck.  Few  natures 
are  universally  jealous.  Yet  jealousy  is  everywhere 
rampant — people  are  jealous  of  people-in-particular. 
"I  don't  grudge  it  her — or  him" — the  phrase  abounds. 
.  .  .  No,  of  course  you  don't,  when  your  Larry-nerve 
isn't  twanged.  You,  John  Robinson — grumbling  at 
some  lack;  but  your  every  desire  is  fulfilled,  it  is 
the  distribution  of  fulfilment  that  has  gone  wrong. 
.  .  .  William  Brown  has  the  positive  to  your 
negative — if  you  were  fitted  together,  the  two  of  you, 
one  man  completely  satisfied  would  be  the  result. 

.  .  And  so  William  Brown  irritates  you,  you 
begrudge  his  apparently  irrelevant  strokes  of  luck 
in  the  same  measure  as  Harry  Thompson's  leave  you 
unmoved.  .  .  .  Why  yes,  man — don't  you  see?  it's 
just  the  old  affinity  belief  made  reversible  .  .  .  each 
soul  with  its  affinity  on  earth  .  .  .  each  soul  with 
its  Larry  on  earth — William  Brown  is  your  Larry — 
perhaps  his  father  and  your  father — perhaps  his  son 
and  your  son — have  been  and  will  be  similarly  in- 


THE   DYNASTY  271 

volved  in  the  Conspirator's  plot — backwards  and 
forwards — cross-currents,   and   cross-relations.  .  .  . 

And  this  is  hatred. 

Hatred  loose  in  the  world;  hatred  usually- 
supposed  irrational.  .  .  .  Have  I,  set  apart  from 
all  men,  been  forewarned  by  a  glimpse  at  the  very 
Machinery  whence  hatred  comes  crashing  and  grind- 
ing? Indeed,  it  seemed  to  me  now,  standing  a  tiny 
figure  at  the  foot  of  realization,  shunned  and  isolated, 
that  I  was  yet  empowered  by  sudden  vision  to 
brandish  unawed  defiance  of  his  schemes  in  the 
grinning  face  of  the  Conspirator  himself. 

Me  you  have  mangled  in  your  humorous  device — 
yes,  how  you  must  have  chuckled  when  I  stumbled 
into  fatuous  guardianship  of  the  child  Yo! — Oh,  I 
grant  you  the  fun  of  it — but  with  me  it  stops.  You 
made  a  mistake  in  stripping  me  of  blindness — for, 
now,  aware  and  participant,  I  can  save  the  Cub. 

"Yes,  Micky — an  excellent  show;  what  did  you 
think  of  the  fighting  bit  in  the  last  act?  Du  Maurier 
wasn't  expecting  it,  you  know — it  was  an  entirely 
spontaneous  notion  on  the  part  of  the  third  super. 
...  All  right!  Hands  off! — I  didn't  mean  it — 
apologize.  'Fraid  it's  too  late  for  supper  anywhere, 
old  man.  There's  a  European  war  in  progress.  .  .  . 
Something  about  no  drinks  after  you've  ordered  food 
with  it  before  half -past  nine  unless  f'ou  let  the  lady 
pay  for  herself.  I  don't  quite  tumble  to  the  stunt, 
but  it's  the  way  to  win  the  war." 


272  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

Child-murder.  They  were  ugly  words,  especially 
used  in  conjunction.  And  yet — I  was  not  intending 
to  hurt  Yo,  only  to  stop  her,  as  you  might  gently  stop 
the  ticking  of  a  clock  by  a  finger  laid  on  the  pen- 
dulum. If  I  let  her  live,  would  Yo  ever  stand,  a 
radiant,  supple  bit  of  girlhood,  slightly  pressing  back- 
wards against  a  man's  hard  arms,  that  she  might 
the  more  deliciously  enjoy  yielding?  lie  there  with 
hidden  lips  shaped  to  kiss,  quiescent  in  happi- 
ness? 

Or  was  creation  dormant  under  that  strong,  yellow 
thatch  of  hers?  Some  divine  picture  unpainted 
— an  inspired  poem  unwritten — splendid  limbs,  un- 
moulded  as  yet  in  statuary  .  .  .  she  might  well 
have  inherited  Felicity's  capricious  genius.  Was  she 
actress  or  musician  in  embryo? 

Whatever  it  was — murdered. 

Could  that  be  called  murder,  which  denied  a  child 
ecstasy  as  yet  only  shadowed  forth — immortality 
unborn  and  only  dreamt  of?  A  negative  form 
of  murder — "I  can't  stay  to  take  pity  for  that." 
.  .  .  Fond  of  Yo — I  was  fond  of  Yo — but  what 
mere  fondness  could  endure  one  second  without 
destruction  in  my  possessive  scorching  passion  for 
my  son? 

I  took  very  little  notice  of  Cubby  these  days — 
Mrs.  Seton  remarked  that  I  was  growing  sensible. 
I  dared  not  show  hinx  natural  petting  affection 
while  I  still  had  that  to  do  on  his  behalf  which  was 
— unnatural.     Afterwards 


THE    DYNASTY  273 

For  him,  freed  from  the  dynasty,  fair  running,  and 
no  kick  at  the  heels.  He  would  grow  up  a  dragon- 
slayer,  ardent  and  full  of  laughter.  And  for  me, 
what  afterwards?  I  should,  no  doubt,  be  glad 
enough  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  I  was  dead, 
which  sounds  a  lengthy  process,  but  is,  I  believe,  a 
swift  drop  to  oblivion.  But  having  mentally 
promised  Cubby  fair  running,  I  should  hardly  be 
justified  to  start  him  with  a  father  who  had  suffered 
the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law. 

Easy  to  forget,  these  days,  having  been  oneself  a 
disciple  of  the  law.  Almost  all  my  briefs  had  been 
criminal  cases — minor  criminals,  certainly.  Well, 
I  should  have  to  arrange  matters  so  as  to  be  a  mere 
minor  criminal;  ignominious,  but  necessary — for 
Cubby.  Too  much  to  hope  for  a  verdict  of 
Accidental  Death,  I  suppose  .  .  .  though  I'll  aim  for 
it.  Manslaughter — three  years — about  that!  From 
their  point  of  view  what  possible  motive  could  I  have 
had,  to  murder  Yo? — ^wicked,  indigent  step-brother 
who  lures  heiress  into  his  charge!  .  .  .  fortunately, 
I  get  no  obvious  benefit  from  Yo's  death.  And 
they'd  all  bear  witness  that  I  adopted  the  kid,  and 

If  I  just  gave  her  back  to  Felicity?  ...  0  God, 
I  don't  want  to  have  to  do  murder,  if  I  can  help  it. 

"That's  no  good.  Babs  would  never  allow  it  .  .  . 
worshipping  her  as  she  does — Larry's  daughter. 
She'd  never  allow  it — for  Larry's  sake." 

Babs  .  .  .  she'll  think  it  funny  that  anything  quite 
so  crude  should  happen  in  one's  own  house  .  .  . 


274  THE    CHINA   SHOP 

murder  is  a  thing  that  happens  in  the  papers!  or, 
at  the  worst,  to  other  people  acquainted  with  people 
who  are  acquaintances. 

And  Felicity?  will  she  object?  Yo  happens  to  be 
hers.  ...  I  had  forgotten  that,  too.  Oh,  but  I 
doubt  if  she  ever  noticed  a  daughter  lying  about — 
she's  got  Larrikin. 

Nobody  will  mind  much.  Barbara  at  first  .  .  . 
but  when  there's  no  rival,  she'll  give  all  she's  got  to 
the  Cub.  Nobody  will  mind  much — except  Yo 
herself,  and  she'll  never  know. 

ril  know.  Three  years — and  then  perhaps  thirty, 
forty  years  of  knowing.  Cubby,  Cubby,  it  won't  be 
pleasant,  little  chap,  to  sleep  and  wake  for  forty  years 
with  the  knowledge  of  oneself  as  a  child-murderer. 
...  It  was  for  that  they  denied  me  enrolment 
among  the  dragon-slayers  out  there. 

Never  mind.  Cub,  my  son.  It's  for  you,  instead. 
Same  thing  .-  .  .  only  better. 

[12] 

"Bang!  bang!  bang!" 

"Now  I'm  dead,"  said  Yo,  impersonating  an 
orang-outang  of  enormously  ferocious  tendencies.  I, 
Fernandez  Bolingbroke,  explorer, — the  name  was  of 
her  choosing — had  levelled  my  revolver  full  at  the 
brute's  heart,  while  with  the  other  hand  I  shaded  my 
eyes  from  the  too  dazzling  rays  of  the  mid-African 


THE   DYNASTY  275 

sun,  and — bang!  bang!  bang!  "I'm  dead,"  said  Yo. 

Obviously  she  would  have  been,  had  the  revolver 
been  loaded.  .  .  . 

We  played  the  hunting  game  every  night.  It  was 
Yo's  unvarying  choice.  Her  role  she  altered  from 
time  to  time — tiger,  panther,  lion,  bear,  wild- 
boar-constrictor  (specially  invented)  .  .  .  anything 
of  the  deadly  genus  that  slunk  or  prowled  or 
butted  or  gnashed  or  coiled.  But  to  me  was  allotted 
unwearyingly  the  part  of  Fernandez  Bolingbrokje, 
allowed  an  occasional  success  and  many  failures;  to 
compensate  me  for  my  failures,  she  pointed  to  the 
fascinating  weapons  at  my  disposal,  ranging  from 
paper-knife,  via  a  skipping-rope  lasso,  to  the  actual 
trench-dagger  and  Colt  which  had  been  in  use  at  the 
Great  War. 

"And  I  always  let  you  come  to  life  again  after  I've 
deaded  you,  Kevin!" 

"Of  your  graciousness,  you  do  certainly,  Yo.  But 
only  that  you  may  have  the  pleasure  of  deading  me 
again  tomorrow." 

She  twinkled  her  white  teeth  at  me — ^Yolande 
Somers  will  one  day  commit  lethal  damage  with  her 
sudden  and  most  attractive  smile! — At  least,  she 
would  if 

Oh — if  I  start  to  be  sentimental  over  the  business 
...  if  I  begin  to  point  out  effects  of  cheap  irony — 
Look,  is  it  any  more  callous  to  contemplate  murdering 
a  child  during  its  playtime  than  during  its  sleep  or 
meals  or  walks  or  embraces  .  .  .  any  other  damned 


276  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

flowering  innocent  moment  of  their  twenty-four  hours? 
Look,  you  sentimentalists,  is  it? 

And — oh,  confound  it! — I  like  children  ...  I  like 
playing  with  Yo.  .  .  . 

Steady.  .  .  . 

It  happens  to  be  convenient  to  murder  her  while 
she  is  a  wild  beast  and  I  Fernandez  Bolingbroke.  I 
shall  be  able  to  take  deliberate  aim  at  her  heart;  and 
not,  through  haste,  or  interruption,  or  desire  not  to  be 
seen,  bungle  the  moment  and  hurt  her,  and  leave  her 
alive.  And  the  whole  incident  will  have  an  ap- 
pearance of  accident.  Everybody,  Barbara,  the 
nurse,  Kate  Seton,  can  testify  that  we  were  in  the  habit 
of  playing  thus,  with  unloaded  firearms  and  other 
realistic  imitations  of  the  real  thing  that  came  handy 
for  attack.  .  .  .  "Kev  was  always  so  careful  with 
kiddies;  he  adored  them." 

How  in  face  of  this,  and  of  my  agonized  denial  of 
intention — Yes,  Cubby,  I  hate  to  lie  about  it,  I'd  much 
rather  not;  but  this  is  your  show,  not  mine — ^how  can 
it  be  proved  that  I  remembered  Ned's  old  revolver  was 
loaded?  .  .  .  The  very  one  which  Barbara  had 
brought  along  in  her  suit-case  that  time.  I  was  doubt- 
ful if  she  had  seen  me  load  it  in  whimsical  semi-ab- 
stracted mood,  in  readiness  for  her  use  against  me, 
during  that  love-scene  between  us.  .  .  .  Captain  Ver- 
non Frome  here  flings  a  satirical  comment  into  the 
jumble  of  events  and  persons  involved.  .  .  . 

A  man  can  easily  have  forgotten  to  take  the  pre- 
caution of  looking,  when  in  lieu  of  his  own  Colt  (sent 


THE   DYNASTY  277 

away  for  mythical  repairs  to  the  trigger)  he  seizes  an 
old  Webley  out  of  the  desk  drawer  where  it  had  lain 
ever  since. 

("Kev — darling  .  .  .  don't  give  it  back  to  Ned — 
You'd  have  to  explain  how  you  got  it,  and — and — 
they'd  think  me  such  a  fool!  Let  him  believe  he's 
lost  it!" 

"Very  well,  darling;  but  I  shall  have  to  give  him 
some  irrelevant  article  of  compensation,  or  I  shall  feel 
like  a  thief  all  my  life." 

And  Ned  never  quite  understood  why  I  suddenly 
and  fondly  presented  him  with  a  neat  set  of  hair- 
brushes. .  .  .   ) 

A  man  might  very  easily  have  forgotten  that 
instant  of  loading.  .  .  .  Unpardonably  careless? — 
why  certainly;  for  that,  I  shall  do  penance  for  three 
years.  .  .  . 

And  for  what  I  had  not  forgotten — a  longer 
penance. 

Babs  is  showing  more  and  more  partiality  for  Yo. 
Soon  the  Cub  will  be  of  an  age  to  become  tortured  by 
it.  But  by  that  time — nothing  will  be  left  to  torture 
him.  I  might  as  well  have  brought  one  of  hell's 
demons  into  the  house,  as  a  child  of  Larry  Munro ! 

Yesterday  I  sent  away  my  Colt  for  repairs  to  the 
trigger. 

There  is  no  need  for  delay  now. 


278  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

[13] 

Jim  Rollinson,  from  the  casualty  department  of 
the  War  Office,  met  me  on  the  steps  as  I  came  out,  and 
suggested  I  should  lunch  with  him. 

To  an  old  schoolmate  and  a  cheery  fellow,  in  spite 
of  some  internal  damages  received  in  Mesopotamia,  I 
could  hardly  be  surly.  He  told  me,  over  the  fish,  that 
Larry  Munro,  of  the  R.  A.  F.,  was  down  in  that  morn- 
ing's black  list. 

"You  remember  Munro,  don't  you?  Was  he  at 
Runchester  in  your  time?  Must  have  been.  Bril- 
liant airman,  they  say — up  to  all  sorts  of  stunts  and 
dodges.  He  was  seen  crashing  into  the  Hun  trenches 
with  his  machine  in  flames,  after  he  had  taken  on 
about  four  Bosches  single-handed.  Tanner,  V.C.  was 
his  observer  and,  of  course,  got  done  in  at  the  same 
time — Awful  pity!     Two  of  our  best  chaps."  .  .  . 

And  I  should  have  to  tell  Barbara. 

Larry  had  beaten  me  again.  A  swift  and  insolent 
climax — literally  blazing  out  of  the  skies — Oh, 
cursedly  pictoral! — and  he  was  a  figure  on  the  frieze 
of  dragon-slayers,  fixed  into  an  immortality  for  ever 
.  .  .  alert  and  young  and  heroic  .  .  .  beautiful. 
Well  done,  Larry! — and  you've  trumped  me  with  an 
ace,  final  and  irrevocable. 

Your  death  over  my  life. 

I  shall  have  to  tell  Barbara,  who  loves  yon . 


THE   DYNASTY  279 

And  after  that  .  .  .  something  else,  something  un- 
pleasant, to  be  done  .  .  .  I've  forgotten  ...  but  it 
was  not  heroic,  like  Larry's  end.  .  .  . 

"Babs,  Larry  is  killed." 

She  stared  at  me,  with  grey-blue  eyes  dilating,  as 
they  always  did  in  a  moment  of  shock.  Then:  "Oh, 
Kev,  Kev,  supposing  it  had  been  you!" 

And  both  her  arms  flung  round  my  neck;  her  body 
quivering  close,  close  against  mine.  .  .  . 

[14] 

There  is  a  fairy  tale  about  three  bands  of  iron 
bound  about  a  man's  heart,  and  the  bursting  of  them 
asunder.  .  .  . 

How  long  my  brain  had  been  clamped  in  iron,  I 
cannot  tell,  nor  of  its  gradual  tightening  till  I  was  as 
near  to  madness  as  a  man  can  go  without  betraying 
himself  to  an  unsuspecting  world.  But  Barbara's  one 
simple  cry  from  the  very  spring  of  spontaneity,  set 
me  free  again,  free  as  I  had  never  been  before,  from 
hate  and  obsession  and  .  .  .  yes,  I  had  remembered 
now,  but  with  a  sense  of  distant  amazement  .  .  . 
from  murder. 

"Oh,  Kev,  Kev,  supposing  it  had  been  you!" 

All  my  life  long  the  cry  had  been  reversed.  Now 
and  at  last  the  evil  spell  was  pierced,  and  I  was  to 
slip  into  my  place  as  some  one  who  mattered  more, 


280  THE    CHINA    SHOP 

intensely  more  than  Larry.  .  .  .  Barbara's  sob  of 
sheer  relief  was  that  in  losing  Larry  she  had  kept  me. 

Why,  then,  Babs,  you  love  me?  Indisputably,  you 
love  me.  In  an  instant  of  crisis  the  truth  rushes  up 
to  the  surface. 

And  loving  me,  you  love  my  child  best?  Do  you? 
...  I  asked  her.     And  she  replied,  wonderingly: 

"0/  course  I'm  fondest  of  Cubby.  That's  why  I 
always  tried  so  hard  to  give  Yo  a  specially  good  time 
.  .  .  because  it  would  have  been  so  hateful  for  her  to 
feel  the  difference.  Wasn't  it  to  save  her  from  that, 
you  brought  her  to  live  with  us?  But  .  .  .  you 
knew,  didn't  you,  Kev? — ^Wby  .  .  .  Kevin  .  .  . 
Cubby's  ours." 

"No.  I  didn't  quite  know.  Never  mind,  dear 
.  .  .  never  mind  that  now." 

There  would  be  a  bad  hour  for  me  presently,  when 
I  should  have  to  force  realization  until  I  came  face  to 
face  with  the  intention  which  squatted  low  and  hideous 
in  the  centre  of  my  late  madness  ...  no  shirking  for 
Childe  Roland,  till  he  stood  opposite  the  very  Dark 
Tower  itself.  .  .  . 

But  just  at  first  and  for  a  little  while,  to  know  my- 
self free,  to  know  that  Barbara  loved  me  .  .  .  loved 
me  best,  that  was  the  glory  of  it;  to  know  that  the  Cub 
was  safe  without  my  performance  of  (face  the  Dark 
Tower,  if  you  can!)  of  child-murder;  and  that  the 
Larry-thing  did  not  exist,  had  never  existed  save  in 
grotesque  imagination.  To  know  that  the  Conspira- 
tor was  God! 


THE   DYNASTY  281 

It  was  enough. 

I  wanted  to  shout  aloud  my  gratitude  from  a  chok- 
ing throat — gratitude  for  this  gift  of  myself  once 
more,  myself  burst  from  the  yellow  wrinkled  skin  of  a 
sloughed  obsession.  Gratitude  to  Barbara;  who 
loved  me,  and  had  told  me  so  in  time — just  in  time, 
little  ignorant,  innocent  bull  in  a  china-shop — she 
never  would  understand  how  her  last  bout  had  sent 
the  sombre  heavens  reeling  and  rocking  and  crashing 
about  me,  in  a  hail  of  black,  broken  china,  fragments 
and  splinters  of  black  china  .  .  .  and  beyond,  blue, 
washed  spaces.  The  world  and  the  heavens  were 
mine  in  this  new  exultant  hour.  Barbara  and  I  were 
King  and  Queen  of  Cornwall,  lying  high  among  the 
pink  sea-thrift,  the  sun  stammering  its  last  gold  upon 
the  sea  and  upon  us — the  dark  waters  pouring  away 
into  the  cold,  shadowy  clefts  and  caverns  among  the 
rocks  below.  King? — I  was  a  conqueror,  a  prisoner 
acquitted,  a  child  reborn,  a  dazed,  incoherent 
lunatic.  .  .  . 

"Kevin,  you're  hurting  me  .  .  .  Kev — ^why, 
what's  the  matter? 

.  .  ."You've  never  kissed  me  like  that  before," 
said  Barbara,  rather  breathless,  a  little  reproachful, 
as  I  released  her.  But  her  bruised  lips  quivered  to  a 
smile,  and  she  added,  lest  perhaps  I  should  never  kiss 
her  like  that  again:  "I  don't  mind.  Only — ^Larry's 
dead,  and  .  .  ." 

Well,  I  was  not  likely  to  misunderstand  anew. 
She  simply  felt  as  a  child  feels,  that  it  is  not  right 


282  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

to  be  joyous  after  fresh  tidings  of  death  .  .  .  for 
awhile  at  least,  a  conventional  lowering  of  general 
atmosphere  must  be  maintained. 

But  her  reminder  smote  me  as  though  I  were  hear- 
ing for  the  first  time  that  my  friend  Larry  Munro  had 
been  killed ;  for  indeed,  it  had  been  another  man  who 
had  heard  the  news  from  Jim  Rollinson.  Larry — 
Larry — sorrow  was  fifty,  a  hundred  degrees  more 
poignant  than  I  had  ever  dreamt  possible,  but  it  was  at 
least  no  isolated  horror,  but  shared  by  two  continents 
mourning  their  losses;  I  could  grieve  with  my  kind, 
now,  as  I  could  love  with  them,  and  achieve  with  them 
.  .  .  after  twenty  years'  exile. 

Larry  himself  had  once  said:  "You'll  go  mad  be- 
cause of  me,  Kev."  .  .  .  Larry — dear  old  fellow — 
if  you  had  been  returning  on  leave  once,  only  once 
again,  I  could  show  you  that  your  prophecy  had  come 
true,  and  would  come  true  never  any  more;  I  could 
show  you  at  last  a  true  and  decent  and  straightfor- 
ward friendliness  .  .  .  love,  if  you  like.  Men  are 
allowed  to  talk  of  having  loved  each  other,  when  one 
of  the  two  is  dead.  That  particular  nerve  has  twanged 
finally,  and  is  broken.  .  .  .  Larry,  I  swear,  it  only 
needed  one  human  creature  to  disperse  the  conspiracy 
by  placing  me  before  you,  to  show  me  that  there  was 
indeed  no  conspiracy.  .  .  .  Oh,  Larry — ^Larry 
Munro ! 

And  Babs  murmured,  sadly,  her  head  against  my 
arm;  "He  was  so  alive  in  that  letter." 


THE   DYNASTY  283 

[15] 

I  waited  till  the  next  evening  before  I  summoned 
courage  and  went  to  Prue. 

She  had  lost — well,  as  though  I  had  lost  Cubby, 
with  twenty-seven  years'  added  accumulation  of 
tenderness. 

Wentworth  opened  the  door  to  me;  his  eyes  were 
red,  and  his  dishevelled  hair  pointed  to  a  crest;  so 
that,  in  opposition  to  his  neat  beard,  it  was  ludicrously 
like  a  head  and  its  reflection  in  water,  a  beard  at  each 
end. 

"Come  in,  come  in,  Kevin.  No,  you  can't  see  her, 
my  boy.     No,  she's  not  alone.     Felicity  is  with  her." 

"Felicity?"  a  sudden  gladness  shot  my  gloom. 

"My  sister  sent  for  her  at  once.  Strange — after 
they  had  quarrelled  so  definitely — let  me  see,  already 
before  the  war,  wasn't  it?  About  four  years  now.  I 
never  quite  grasped  the  reason.  But  Felicity  came 
immediately;  I  must  say  her  speed  did  credit  to  her 
good  heart,  but  she  was  fond  of  Larry,  poor  boy! 
poor  boy!  we  were  all  so  fond  of  him.  And  they've 
been  shut  up  together  ever  since.  I  went  in  once,  to 
see  if  Prue  would  like  a  fire — sometimes  a  fire  is  a 
comfort  in  great  grief — even  in  summer.  And  there 
they  were,  not  exactly  crying,  but  talking  .  .  .  about 
.  .  .  about.  ..." 

Wentworth  stopped.  He  seemed  agitated  and  un- 
happy, as  though  some  element  in  the  reconciliation 


284  THE   CHINA    SHOP 

were,   to   quote   his   favourite   phrase,    "irregular." 

"About  Larry?"  I  suggested. 

"Yes — about  Larry,  certainly.  But — I'm  not  sure 
— I  stayed  a  little  while — the  fire  was  obstinate  .  .  . 
it's  a  bad  grate,  and  I  didn't  want  a  servant  to  disturb 
them.  But  I'm  not  sure  that  they  weren't  talking 
about  Larry  Munro  as  well — Prue's  late  husband, 
you  never  knew  him,  of  course.  Did  you? 
Ah,  yes,  yes,  I  remember.  But  so  long  ago,  and  from 
the  very  first  we  could  never  get  her  to  mention  him; 
it  seems  so  queer,  now,  .  .  .  They  talked,  and  I 
could  really  hardly  distinguish  which  Larry  they 
meant."  .  .  . 


[16] 


I  walked  home  to  Barbara,  to  a  jolly  nursery  tea, 
and  a  romp  with  Yo  and  the  Cub,  with  a  feeling 
upon  me  as  though  the  streets'  fret  and  bustle  had 
been  unwontedly  quenched  to  serenity.  Somewhere 
out  there  men  were  blindly  dealing  pain,  and  a 
young  dragon-slayer  had  been  violently  hurled  out 
of  life  .  .  .  but  here,  at  home,  you  could  still 
occasionally  stumble  across  beauty,  a  quiet  thing  in 
its  scooped-out  niche  among  noise  and  raw  misery. 

Two  women,  friends  again,  sitting  together  and 
talking  of  Larry  Munro.  .  .  . 

How  they  had  loved  him!  And  loving  him,  each 
other!     And  yet  it  seemed  again  as  though  they  could 


THE   DYNASTY  285 

meet  only  over  Larry  Munro  dead.  As  flesh  and 
blood,  he  awoke  in  them  bitter  rivalry;  as  flesh  and 
blood,  they  strove  for  him,  and  were  hard  in  forgive- 
ness. As  a  memory,  they  found  tender  comfort 
in  their  companionship  of  sorrow,  each  rejoicing 
proudly  in  the  acknowledgment  of  Larry's  peerless- 
ness,  paid  him  by  the  other's  grief.  It  had  happened 
twenty  years  ago ;  it  was  happening  now.  And  twenty 
years  hence ? 

Whether  the  Larry-conspiracy  driven  against  me 
had  ever  existed  or  not,  I  cannot  say — ^but  this  much 
of  settled  fate  is  undeniable:  that  for  Prue  and 
Felicity  could  be  no  other  child  or  boy  or  man  signif- 
icant to  them  than  this  one  mobile,  insolent,  mis- 
chievous Larry  repeated  down  the  dynasty  .  .  .  how 
often? 

There  was  still  Larrikin. 

Wentworth  had  mentioned,  before  I  left,  that 
Felicity  was  taking  Prue  with  her  to  Thyme  Croft 
the  next  day.  Once  more,  two  women  and  a  shrine 
and  a  small  boy  ...  I  was  glad  to  the  very  core 
of  my  heart  that  I  had  rescued  Yo  from  her  position 
as  me,   in  this  reminiscent  phase  of  an  old  story. 

Yes,  we  were  cut  away  and  adrift  from  it  now, 
Barbara  and  I  and  Yo  and  the  Cub;  but  .  .  .  would 
the  queer  lilt  and  break  in  the  saga  inevitably  recur? 
and  presently,  when  Larrikin  was  older,  would  they 
yet  again  find  it  impossible  to  share  him?  Wife 
and  bride,  mother  and  lover,  grandmother  and 
mother,  group  it  how  you  will,  the  essence  of  their 


286  THE   CHINA   SHOP 

passion  remains  the  same,  faithful  and  fierce,  denying 
the  other's  claim. 

No  matter.     For  the  moment  there  they   sit  to- 
gether, talking  of  Larry.  .  .  . 

THE  END 


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